


Atharil's Hunt

by Rowyna



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Feels, Babies, Blood and Violence, Childbirth, City Elves, Complicated Relationships, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, Dalish Issues, Dalish Sexuality, Dom/sub Undertones, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Elves, Emerald Graves, F/M, Family Feels, Love, Love Triangles, Mild Smut, Original Character(s), Orlesians, Pregnancy, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2018-12-10 11:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 63
Words: 80,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rowyna/pseuds/Rowyna
Summary: Atharil loves Freylen, but she refuses to take their relationship seriously.  Or even call it a relationship.  When an Orlesian noble arrives in the Graves with her elven servant in tow, will the Dalish hunter turn his affections elsewhere?This story is a sequel to "Rabbit".





	1. Chapter 1

 The august ram flared its nostrils and raised its head.  It flicked its delicate ears back and forth for a moment, still chewing but wary, ready to bolt at the slightest sound.  The Emerald Graves remained as silent as their name, sunlight streaming through holes in the leafy canopy.  Eventually, it dropped its head again and continued grazing.

 Above and behind it, the hunter nocked an arrow.  His bare feet gripped the wide limb beneath him, feeling within it the coolness left behind by the morning's rain.  A breeze rustled the leaves around him, diguising the sound of his movement as he drew his bow.  He took a deep breath.

 And then someone screamed.  The ram darted off, bounding out of sight behind a stone outcropping, the sounds of its flight receding into the distance.  Atharil stared after it for a moment, surprised and disappointed.  Then, sighing, he turned and headed off in the opposite direction.

 It didn't take long to find the source of the cry.  A pair of young women were on the path below, clinging to one another as they stared off into the bushes.  Something moved there, something large and brown and hairy.  A great bear.

 He looked back at the girls.  They both wore Orlesian masks, but one was far simpler in design than the other.  Their clothing, too, was unequal in quality and decoration.  The one in the plainer garments had pointed ears.

 Atharil moved quickly, hopping from branch to branch until he was in a tree behind the massive beast.  Then he shouted at it and shot it in the ass.  It turned, bellowing, and he shot it again before moving further away from the path, drawing it away into the deeper forest.

 Furious, the bear followed.  Atharil continued to shoot at it, emptying his quiver into its thick hide as it roared and swept its great claws at the air just beneath his feet.  Once, it tried to climb the tree he was in, but he leapt to another.  It put its front paws on the trunk and tried to shake him down, but he grabbed another limb and held tight. 

 Eventually, its movements grew slower, its fur darkening with blood everywhere an arrow had embedded itself.  Stumbling slightly, it turned and tried to retreat from the fight, but it was too late.  Atharil would not leave the animal to lumber away and die a lingering death elsewhere.  Out of arrows, he drew his dagger and muttered a quick prayer to Andruil.

 The elf dropped onto the bear's wide back just behind its shoulder blades.  As it swung its head around to knock him off, he thrust his blade into its neck with all his might, and rolled away.  There was no time to do more; either the beast was about to die, or he was.  Or perhaps both of them.

 The creature looked at him and blinked.  It tried to roar, but only a gurgle and a rush of blood emerged from its enormous jaw.  It took a step forward, and then another, and Atharil scooted backward across the forest floor.  Then, with a final bloody wheeze, it fell over.

 Atharil let out a relieved breath.  He got shakily to his feet and pulled his dagger from the bear's throat, wiping it carefully on a clump of soft moss.  Not that it mattered.  He was covered in the bear's warm, sticky blood.  Wearily, he sheathed the blade and made his way back to the path.

 The girls were still there, and this time they both screamed as he emerged from the undergrowth.

 "It's the Dalish!" the frillier, human one cried. She pushed her elven companion forward.  "Talk to him, Elodie!"

 "I...I don't speak Elvish."  Her hair was flaming red, held back in a practical bun at the back of her head.  She wrung her small hands together.  "Maker, please don't kill us!"

 Atharil shook his head.  "If I wanted you dead, I would have let the bear do the work for me."  He wiped his brow, and realized he was only smearing blood across it.  Just in case they weren't frightened enough, already.

 "Is the bear gone?"  The human peeked out from behind Elodie's back.

 "The bear is dead."  He paused.  "The hide is mine.  And the meat."

 "As if we'd want to eat it!"  She stood up a little straighter, reclaiming a bit of her lost dignity.  "You're welcome to the remains, elf.  As payment for rescuing me."

 "Generous, indeed."  If she caught the sarcasm in his voice, she didn't show it.  Not that it would have been easy to tell with a mask covering half her face, anyway.  Atharil turned to her companion.  "Your...mistress, is it?  She's fortunate you were with her, little sister.  Are you alright?"

 "I...yes.  Thank you."  She was clearly flustered by his attention, unused to anyone inquiring after her well-being.

 "What were you doing out here, anyway?  The Graves are no place to wander unarmed."

 Elodie motioned toward an overturned basket nearby.  "Collecting flowers for the dining table.  Her Ladyship thought it would make for a pleasant stroll."

 Atharil frowned at their foolishness.  "I hope you won't make that mistake again."

 The young noble huffed.  "I certainly shall not."  She straightened her silk gloves.  "Come, Elodie.  Let us return home, and leave this Dalish to his bear carcass."

 "Yes, my lady."  The red-haired girl cast a last glance at Atharil, and he had just time enough to notice bright green eyes behind her mask before she turned away to collect the fallen basket.  She scooped a handful of cut flowers back into it and hurried after her mistress, who showed no sign of waiting for her.  Atharil stood looking after them until they were gone, then climbed a nearby tree and made for his clan's encampment.  He would need help with the bear, and the Keeper needed to know that the nearest summer house was now occupied.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He spoke with Tirsas first, their conversation brief because the Keeper was engaged in a lesson on Elvish writing with his First, Freylen. Ever the reluctant and easily-distracted pupil, Freylen tried to get Atharil to linger by peppering him with questions about the Orlesians he'd encountered. He answered a few, but could see Tirsas was growing impatient with the pair of them. Eventually, he patted her shoulder and told her he'd give her the rest of the details later. In bed, preferably, though he left out that part.

Leaving the Keeper's tent and heading south through Clan Lutharra's encampment, the sounds of sawing and hammering reached his ears. Two months had passed since they'd arrived in the Emerald Graves, and they were nearly finished rebuilding all the aravels they'd lost in the Venatori attack. It was reassuring to know life would soon return to something approaching normal.

Atharil found the other people he was looking for outside the tent they shared. Feyndir was showing Ryneth how to fletch an arrow, a small pile of feathers beside them on the ground. She was sitting between his legs, and he was reaching around her to help fasten them to the shaft, pausing now and then to nibble playfully at her neck. The newlyweds were sickeningly cute, but he forgave them for it. Creators knew they'd been through enough recently.

"Ahem," he said loudly. "I hope I'm not intruding, but I've just taken down a great bear single-handedly, and I could use some help dressing it."

They both stared at him, their eyes flickering over his bloodied clothing, face, and hands. Feyndir was first on his feet, quickly pulling his bride up after him.

"Fenedhis, lethallin," he breathed. "What possessed you to do that? You could have been killed!"

"It was about to devour a pair of idiotic Orlesians. I wouldn't have interfered, except that one of them was also an elf." Belatedly, he remembered that he was in the presence of a human, but Ryneth didn't seem to mind the implication. Sometimes Atharil wondered if she even recalled her race, anymore.

"Well, what are we waiting for?," she asked cheerfully. "Bear for dinner sounds terrific; we've had nug-and-mushroom stew three days straight."

 

Atharil retrieved his many arrows before they set to work gutting and skinning the huge animal. It was tiring, messy work, but between the three of them it was going quickly until Ryneth suddenly stopped and stood up, letting her knife fall to the ground beside her.

"Rabbit?" Feyndir asked, using his pet name for her. "What's wrong?"

She didn't answer, but threw a bloody hand over her mouth and turned away abruptly, stalking off into the bushes. A moment later, they heard retching. Atharil looked at Feyndir, a slow grin creeping across his face.

"I may be out of line here," he said, "but I've seen Ryneth clean quite a few animals, and she's never done that before. I believe congratulations may be in order."

Feyndir paled. "She's never cleaned anything this large before, either. She's likely just bothered by all the blood and guts."

Atharil furrowed his brow, surprised at his friend's reaction. "I suppose that's another possibility."

"Ara seranna-ma." Ryneth emerged from the undergrowth and picked up her knife. "I don't know what came over me."

"Perhaps you should sit this out," Atharil suggested. "Have a rest." He looked pointedly at Feyndir, but the other elf didn't return his gaze. 

"No, it's okay." She seemed embarrassed. "I'm fine now. I was just queasy for a moment, that's all."

"Of course, lethallan. If there's anything we can do for you, let us know."

Feyndir scowled. "She said she's fine, Atharil. Drop it."

"I would love to. Will you pick it up?"

Ryneth looked from one of them to the other, confused. "What are you two talking about?"

"Nothing," they answered together, and turned their attention back to carving up the enormous beast.


	3. Chapter 3

 He slipped into her tent sometime after midnight, shedding his clothes in the darkness. 

 "How long are you going to force me to creep through the camp like a thief to see you?" he asked, feeling his way between the blankets.

 "I don't force you to do anything.  You didn't have to come."

 Atharil groaned.  "No one cares that we're fucking, Freylen.  Half the clan already knows, anyhow."

 She rolled onto her side.  "Feyndir doesn't know."

 "I'm fairly certain he does; he just chooses not to speak of it.  His little sister and his best friend...it's awkward."

 "Which is why this way is better."  She kissed him; lightly at first, then deeper, her tongue finding his and darting away.  Making him chase her, as always.  He rolled her beneath him, and she let out a tiny whine.

 "A thought occurred to me today," he said, wrapping one hand in her long hair.  "What do you intend to do if you fall pregnant?"

 She laughed.  "Drink medicine, of course.  What else would I do?"

 He stared down at her, her eyes glints of light in the shadows.  "Really?  You wouldn't want the child?"

 She sighed.  "Can't we have this conversation another time?  It's a bit of a turn-off." 

 "Of course -"  He almost said 'vhenan', but caught himself.  He knew how much she  hated that word.  Instead, he pulled her head back and covered her beautiful throat in kisses, and pretended that what they had was enough.

 

 The clan wouldn't need meat for days, but Atharil still went hunting in the morning.  He wandered through the canopy aimlessly, thinking about Freylen and worrying about Ryneth, and generally feeling melancholic.  Eventually, and without realizing it, his steps led him back to the path near the Orlesian summer house.

 "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered.  The elven girl was below him, picking flowers along the trail.  Annoyed, he loosed an arrow that embedded itself in the ground a few feet from her, causing her to gasp and look up.

 "Why are you out here again?" he called down to her.  "Looking for another bear?"

 "I...um, no."  She looked over her shoulder, body language with which Atharil was familiar.  She was seeking an escape route, preparing to flee.

 He dropped to the ground lightly, closing the distance between them.  "Where's your shemlen friend?"

 "I'm Lady Colette's companion, not her friend.  I'm in the service of Lord Trevers, her father."

 The titles meant nothing to him.  "And what does a 'companion' do, exactly?" 

 She shrugged her narrow shoulders.  "Whatever she is told, like every other elf in Orlais.  Today she bid me fetch her fresh flowers, so here I am."

 Atharil shut his eyes for a moment in disbelief.  "She sent you out here alone, after what happened yesterday?"

 "Of course.  She realizes now it's too dangerous to come herself."

 "Yes, but...."  He shook his head.  "I'll stay with you, then.  Make sure you return safely."

 She hesitated.  "That's very kind of you, but you don't even know me.  I couldn't ask you to-"

 He took a step toward her, testing, and watched as she took a step back.  "You're afraid of me."

 Elodie gave a nervous laugh.  "No, I'm not."  Her eyes darted downward and to the side.

 "What is it?  The scar?"  The left side of Atharil's face had been hit with a fireball during the Venatori attack, leaving an area of taut, pink skin from the outer corner of his eyebrow down to his chin.  His ear on that side was also slightly misshapen.   His clansmen were already accustomed to his appearance, but he realized with a stab of dismay that it might be unsettling to outsiders.

 "No, of course not.  It's hardly noticeable."  Probably a lie, he thought, but a kind one.

 "Is it my vallaslin, then?  It's just a tattoo."

 She laughed, and he saw some of her tension fall away.  "Just a tattoo all over your face, you mean.  No, that's not intimidating at all."

 Atharil smiled.  "No more so than your mask, I think."

 "Maybe, but I can remove my mask."

 She was so easily manipulated, he almost felt guilty.  "Why not, then?  I'm curious to see your face."  
   
 Elodie reached behind her head and untied a velvet ribbon, letting the mask fall into the palm of her hand.  She blushed as she raised her face.  "I'm not supposed to do this.  If Her Ladyship knew...."  Her voice trailed off.

 Atharil stared at her.  She was beautiful, her high cheekbones lightly freckled, her eyes wide as a startled deer.  He had guessed she was pretty, but not to this degree.  "That's, um, that's much better," he said, hating himself for his sudden awkwardness. 

 Elodie blushed even harder.  "I don't think I ever caught your name, you know."

 "Ir abelas;  I'm Atharil.  It is a pleasure to meet you properly, Elodie."

 


	4. Chapter 4

 It became a routine.  Elodie's thoughtless mistress demanded fresh flowers every day, and Atharil took to waiting for the red-headed girl in the crook of an ancient oak just up the hill from the residence.  He told himself he would do the same for any elf, but that didn't explain why he never let anyone else accompany him, or why he told the clan he was hunting when he went to meet her.  It became a joke in the camp; some of the other Dalish started calling Atharil "He Who Hunts Alone", but he ignored them.

 And then one day, Elodie emerged from behind the scrolling iron gates of the estate with a smile on her uncovered face.  There was a lightness to her step that Atharil had never seen before, and she carried no basket for collecting blooms.  She waved to him from afar, motioning for him to draw nearer.

 Atharil slid out of the tree and crept closer cautiously.  He had always been careful to stay out of sight, not wanting to draw the attention of any shemlen in the household.  He sensed something had changed, now, but he didn't know what.

 "They're gone!" Elodie called to him, laughing.  She ran up and took his hand, and he felt a guilty rush of heat course through him.  "Lady Colette and her mother have gone back to Val Royeaux.  They've left us servants to prepare for Colette's birthday party next week."

 "That's...good?"  Everything she was saying was so alien to Atharil that he didn't know how to respond.  "You won't have to pick flowers in the woods anymore.  You'll be safe."

 She nodded.  "And you can come inside now.  I want to show you around."  She pulled at him, but he remained still.

 "You want me to go in there?"  He looked at the enormous blue house, far larger than any shemlen dwelling he'd ever seen.  "I don't think that's a good idea."

 Elodie pouted.  "Please?  Marienne doesn't think you're real.  I told her a Dalish looks out for me whenever I have to go outside the gates, and she called me a liar."  She turned her big green eyes on him.  "She'll be so surprised!"

 Atharil couldn't help but smile at her excitement.  "Very well," he agreed reluctantly, allowing her to drag him through the gates and across the impeccable gardens within.  "Just to be clear - all the servants are elven?"

 "Everyone here, yes.  The Baron and Baroness have a few human servants, but they're back in the city."  It reassured him somewhat; at least no one would attack him for his race alone.

 They entered through a side door, the smell of baking bread wafting out as soon as it was opened.  The kitchen was just on the other side, full of more gleaming pots and pans than Atharil had ever seen in one place.  He doubted his entire clan possessed so many.  In front of an enormous hearth a woman stood, stirring a pot of soup with one hand and humming softly.  She looked up as they entered, smiled at Elodie, and then screamed.

 Elodie ran to her side.  "Hush, Marienne!  This is the Dalish I told you about!"

 Atharil stood awkwardly in the doorway, his large eyes taking in the room.  It was cavernous, yet somehow the walls seemed to press in on him.  He was used to being outdoors, or within the thin and moveable confines of a tent.  The feeling of the cold marble floor under his bare feet was unnerving; the sight of the heavy beams above his head equally so.  He fought a sudden, powerful urge to back out of the building.

 "Maker preserve us," the cook breathed, wiping her hands on her apron.  She approached him as one would a wild creature, slowly and with a defensive hand out in front of her.  "Hello, there.  I'm Marienne; what's your name?"

 He frowned slightly.  "I'm Atharil."

 "Maker," the woman repeated.  Her eyes traveled quickly from his marked face and  loose neckerchief to his fur pauldrons and green tunic.  She took in his herringbone-patterned leather gauntlets and matching leggings, and the graceful bow on his back.  "That is a Dalish, all right."

 Elodie giggled.  "I told you so.  I'm going to bring him around the house."  She motioned for him to follow her.

 Marienne nodded slowly, seemingly rooted to the spot.  Atharil stepped carefully around her, feeling uncomfortable.  "Ara seranna-ma.  It was nice meeting you."

 "He speaks Elvish," the woman murmured to herself as they exited the room on the far side.  "Of course he does."

   
 Elodie burst out laughing in the dining room.  "Did you see the look on her face?  She's never seen a Dalish before, I'll bet."

 Atharil considered.  "Had you?  Before you met me?"

 "My father was a Dalish.  But he left when I was a baby, so maybe that's a 'no'."  She shrugged.  "He tried living in the alienage for my mother's sake, but he couldn't.  She said she didn't blame him when he finally disappeared."

 Atharil ran one finger along the back of a polished chair.  "I never knew my father, either," he said quietly.

 She put a hand on his arm.  "I'm sorry.  Did yours run off, too?"

 He smiled faintly.  "Not exactly.  There's a certain...ritual my clan practices.  Occasionally, a child is conceived through it."

 Elodie raised her eyebrows.  "That's how you were born?"

 He chuckled.  "I know how it sounds.  But it's not so bad, really.  My people consider me a gift from the goddess Andruil, destined to be a great and fearsome hunter."  He touched the bow-and-arrow markings on his face.  "That's why I wear her vallaslin."

 She reached up, tentative, and traced the curve of the bowstring on his cheek.  "Then it's Andruil I should thank for saving me from that bear?"  she teased softly.

 Atharil looked down at her.  She was so close he could feel the warmth of her breath, see the pulse in her upturned neck.  And Creators, she was lovely without that damned mask on.  He leaned in slightly, just to see how she would react, and her lips parted.  It was too much to resist.

 He slid an arm about her waist and drew her into a kiss, half-expecting her to pull away.  Instead, she softened in his embrace in a way that Freylen never did, giving herself over to him without teasing, without games.  He had the wild thought that if he tried to take her to bed, she would go willingly.  It was unnerving.

 "I should go."  He drew back, and she blinked in confusion.  "Ir abelas; this is too sudden." 

 "What about your tour?" she asked innocently.  "You haven't even met everyone yet."

 "I'm sorry.  Truly."  He took both of her hands in his.  "I need time to think, Elodie.  I hope you won't be offended."

 She shook her head.  "It's alright.  I'll be waiting for you, Atharil."

 The sound of his name on her lips nearly made him lose his resolve.


	5. Chapter 5

 Atharil nearly ran into Ryneth on the way back to camp.  Literally, and twenty feet above the ground.

 "Creators!  What do you think you're doing?"

 She smiled at him, wobbling slightly on the branch of a white oak.  "I told Feyndir I wanted to learn to walk the canopy, but he keeps putting off teaching me.  So, I thought I'd practice a bit on my own while he's off scouting."  She turned around slowly.  "Now that you're here, you can help me."

 Atharil felt as if he couldn't take a proper breath.  "Stay right where you are, lethallan."  He made his way over to her, stepping even more lightly than usual so as not to sway the branch.  When he reached her, he took her by the wrist.  "Climb down with me.  Now."

 "What?  No!"  She took a step backwards, pulling him with her.

 "Please, Ryneth.  This isn't safe for...for many reasons.  We can discuss some of them when you're back on the ground."

 She narrowed her eyes.  "If I go with you, will you teach me to do this properly?"

 He considered.  "I will teach you the beginning steps.  They do not involve heights."

 She nodded, and followed him slowly down to the forest floor.  When they reached it, Atharil leaned his back against the tree's trunk and let out a huge sigh of relief. 

 "Young Dalish do not climb so high until they have practiced walking logs for months.  If you like, I will build you an obstacle course, and you can improve your balance safely."  He shook his head.  "I don't suppose Feyndir mentioned why he doesn't want you traipsing about the treetops?"

 She shrugged.  "He only said he would teach me later, or that he was too busy, or a dozen different excuses.  I got tired of waiting."

 "And how have you been feeling?  Still throwing up?"  It came out sounding angry, and he regretted it at once.  He was angry, but not at her.

 Ryneth blushed.  "I've been having some trouble adjusting to the Dalish diet.  There're a lot more...bugs."

 Atharil folded his arms.  There were more questions he might ask of her, but they were all too personal.  The fact that she didn't even suspect another possible cause for her nausea, though, was worrying.  If she didn't figure things out soon, someone would need to explain it to her.  And that someone should be Feyndir.

  
 They walked back to the camp together, and Atharil left Ryneth outside her tent with a wave and an admonishment not to climb any more trees in his absence.  Then he began searching for his old friend.

 It took most of the afternoon.  Clan Lutharra's scouts ranged far into the forest, and each was responsible for surveilling a wide swath of territory.  Add to that the fact that Feyndir was likely sitting halfway up a tree somewhere, wrapped in a cloak the same color as the leaves, and it rendered the task nearly impossible.  Atharil was almost ready to give up when he heard a distinctive birdcall.

 He looked in the direction of the sound, and saw his clansman pointing at something below.  Instinctively, Atharil pressed his back against the trunk of the tree he was in, peering down cautiously.  On the ground, three humans in mismatched armor were passing clumsily through the underbrush.  Atharil drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it, but Feyndir shook his head.  Together, they watched the trio until they disappeared from sight.

 "Who were they?" he asked, crossing to the tree in which Feyndir crouched.

 "They call themselves the Freemen of the Dales.  Just a bunch of deserters and troublemakers from the Orlesian civil war."

 Atharil looked in the direction they'd gone.  "Why not shoot them, then?"

 "Because they're nowhere near the camp, and aren't headed toward it.  In fact, they don't even know there are Dalish in this area.  Better to keep it that way."  He furrowed his brow.  "What are you doing way out here, anyway?"

 "I came to talk with you about Ryneth."

 Feyndir sighed.  "I don't know if I'm ready for this, lethallin.  I don't know if the clan is ready."

 At least he wasn't in denial anymore.  "The clan accepted Ryneth, and Keeper Tirsas performed your wedding himself.  They have no grounds to reject your child."

 "That may be true, but it won't be easy for them to welcome another shemlen so soon.  I had hoped we'd have more time...."

 Atharil winced.  "The child won't be a shemlen, Feyndir.  Not truly."

 Feyndir looked at him blankly.  "Ma serannas, my friend.  But the rest of the world will not see it that way."

 They sat in silence for a while, staring off towards Elgar'nan's Bastion in the distance.

 "Ryneth does not seem to be...aware," Atharil said finally.

 "No.  I have been waiting for her to tell me, as a woman does.  But she does not seem to know it herself."  He brushed an ant off his arm. 

 Atharil frowned.  "Surely there are other symptoms, though.  Ones she cannot miss?"

 Feyndir reddened slightly.  "Her cycles are irregular, so...no.  Creators, don't ever tell her I told you that."

 "Never."  He clapped a hand on his friend's back.  "But she needs to know, lethallin.  I caught her up a tree today, trying to walk the branches."

 Feyndir looked at him in horror.  "I will speak to her soon.  You have my word."


	6. Chapter 6

 It was nearly dusk when he found Freylen, and she wasn't at all where he'd hoped she'd be.  Still, at least she was alone.  He sat and watched her for a few minutes, gliding back and forth in the still, deep pool, her chestnut hair pooling around her in the water.  Lazily, she turned onto her back and stared up at the sky, where the first stars were beginning to appear.  Atharil thought he had never seen anything so lovely; the very sight of her made his chest ache.

 "I know you're watching me," she called out suddenly, breaking his reverie and nearly causing him to fall out of the tree.  "I can't see you, but I know you're there."

 He shook his head and dropped to the ground, making his way through the underbrush until he stood at the pond's edge.

 "Atharil!"  She laughed and stood up in the waist-deep water.  "I didn't expect it was you peeping at me.  Pervert."

 He frowned.  "You were expecting someone else, then?"

 "Some of the younger boys get curious.  You know how it is; you were young once."

 A joke about their age difference.  He was not in the mood for it.  "Which ones?" he scowled, scanning the surrounding trees.  "Perhaps I should speak to the Keeper about it."

 Freylen rolled her eyes.  "Why don't you join me, instead?  You haven't been around much lately."

 It was a difficult offer to refuse.  "I didn't come here for that.  I came to talk."

 She sighed and lay back again, letting the water hold her up.  "Go on, then."

 He sat down heavily on a nearby rock, trying not to look at her.  "Are we...what are we doing, Freylen?  Is this a relationship?"

 "What?"  She was moving away from him, heading for deeper water.  "I can't hear you."

 "I said, is this-"  He cut off, realizing her game.  "Damn it, Freylen."  Irritated, he began working off his belt.  "Can't we even have a discussion without you turning it into a pursuit?"

 "Ir abelas, Atharil.  You'll have to speak up."  She giggled and retreated even further, and he found himself becoming aroused despite his annoyance.  He never could resist a chase, and she knew it.  Growling, he stood up and shrugged off his tunic, then unlaced his pants.

 Freylen whistled appreciatively as he disrobed.  "You know, I don't think I've ever seen you by the light of day before."

 "You might have, if you didn't insist on sneaking around all the time."  He cast the rest of his clothing aside and followed her into the water.  She squealed and swam away.

 "Come back here, you little minx," he grunted, swimming after her.  She was surprisingly fast in the water, and managed to make it all the way to the other side of the pond before becoming trapped by a long, sheer outcropping of stone.  Atharil shook his head slowly, treading water.  "Now what, silly girl?"

 "Now this."  She took a deep breath and disappeared beneath the water, resurfacing a moment later behind him.  Or she would have been behind him, had he not already turned around.

 "Predictable," he chided, catching one of her wrists and holding fast.  "Come with me."  He led her back into shallower water where they both could stand up.  She didn't resist him.  "Are you ready to talk to me now?"

 She ran her free hand lightly up his arm.  "If that's what you want to do."

 "Are we exclusive, Freylen?"  He tried to ignore her fingertips moving across his shoulder and up the side of his neck. 

 "Why?" she purred, taking a step closer.  He could feel the heat of her body even through the cool water.  "Is there another in our clan you fancy, Atharil?"

 He frowned.  "No, there isn't."  It wasn't a lie, and now she was on her toes, stroking his mangled ear, her breasts raised above the water.

 "Then what difference does it make?"  She pressed herself against him, and he let go of her wrist and reached behind her thighs with both hands, lifting them to rest on his hips.

 "Fenedhis," he sighed as he entered her.  "Never a straight answer from you."

 She laughed softly against his cheek.  "Just enjoy the moment, hunter.  You've caught me, for today."


	7. Chapter 7

 Lying beside her in the early-morning stillness, Feyndir stared at his wife, watching her chest slowly rise and fall in her sleep.  Tenderly, he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind one of her impossibly small, round ears.  He tried to imagine a child with his face and those tiny ears.  But that wasn't right.  Their baby wouldn't have his nose, his eyes, or any other feature that might suggest an elven parent.  The thought pained him in a way he hadn't expected.  He remembered what Atharil had once said - _"She will bear you shem children, and your descendants will never be of the People again."_   Knowing his friend would take back those words if he could did little to ease their sting.  Or their truth.

 Ryneth stirred and opened her eyes.  At first, she smiled to see him gazing at her, but then she faltered.  "What's wrong?" she asked, trailing a sleepy hand down his cheek.

 "Nothing, vhenan."  He forced himself to return her smile.  "How are you feeling?"

 "So far, so good."  She stretched, throwing her arms over her head.  "No telling what will happen when I go outside and smell the cookfires, though."

 He shook his head sympathetically.  "Will you walk with me this morning?  Before I leave for the day?"

 She looked at him curiously.  "Of course, Feyndir.  Are we going anywhere in particular?"

 "Nowhere far.  There's something I want to show you."

  
 They hurried past the other tents and aravels, Ryneth holding one arm over her nose the entire way, Feyndir's hand on the small of her back.  When they were safely beyond the scents of Dalish breakfasts being prepared, she stopped and took several deep breaths.

 "I think I made it," she said, still looking pale.

 "Good.  This way."  He led her down a short path, worn bare by use.

 "We're going to visit the halla keeper?" she said doubtfully.

 He chuckled.  "We're going to visit the halla."

 The snowy-white animals looked up, curious, as the two of them approached.  Some took steps toward them, their delicate ears pricked forward in interest, only to shy away again after sniffing the air.

 "They're not fond of me," Ryneth said, a touch of disappointment in her voice.

 Feyndir opened the latch on the paddock's gate.  "They mistrust humans as a general rule.  Not unlike the Dalish.  If you made a bit more effort with them-"

 She snorted.  "I've tried.  They withdraw to the far corner of the pen whenever I get near them.  Like they're doing now."

 He smiled.  "Let's try again."  Reluctantly, she followed him into the enclosure, and he closed the gate behind them.  "Stay behind me."

 Feyndir advanced on the herd slowly, his head down, one hand outstretched palm-up before him.  Ryneth could hear him murmuring something unfamiliar in Elvish.

 "What's that?" she whispered, clinging to the back of his tunic, peeking around his side.

 "Honestly, I don't know," he returned in a soft voice.  "Something I've heard their keeper say to calm them."  He stopped a few feet from the herd and repeated the phrase in soothing tones.  After a moment's hesitation, one of them stepped forward.

 Others followed it, and before long most of the group was gathering around Feyndir, sniffing and nuzzling him gently, searching for scraps of food in his clothing.  He reached out and patted several of them, still crooning to them the strange Elvish words.  Then, slowly, he stepped aside.

 Ryneth froze, waiting for the inevitable rejection, but it never came.  Instead, the deer-like creatures looked at her uncertainly, and then drew closer.  She reached out a cautious hand and stroked the top of one's head, and it pressed its muzzle against her abdomen.  She had to duck her head to the side to avoid its spiraling horns.

 "Feyndir!" she gasped, turning to see whether he was watching.  He was, a quiet smile on his face.  She giggled as more of the halla bumped against her, nudging her stomach, nibbling at her tunic.  She spread her arms out and petted all that she could reach, laughing.  "I don't understand, but for some reason they love me now!"

 Feyndir placed a hand on her shoulder.  "They mistrust humans, but they're quite fond of elves."

 "I don't -"  She looked into the creatures' eyes, every pair of them focused on the area just below her navel.  Shakily, her hands moved downward, spreading across her abdomen in wonder.  "Feyndir...." she breathed.

 "Yes, rabbit?"

 She turned and looked him again, and he'd never seen such an expression of complete joy.  "I think I'm pregnant."

 He folded her into his arms, and suddenly it didn't matter what shape their child's ears were, or whether anyone else would ever know by looking that he was the father.  He would hold the truth in his heart, and they would raise their da'len to be proud to have elvish blood.  "I love you, vhenan," he whispered to her as the halla closed around them, friendly and inquisitive.  "Congratulations."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See new tags - this one's a bit violent.

 Atharil circled the house twice, searching for some sign of Elodie.  His feet found branches that allowed him to discreetly check every corner of the walled gardens, but there was no sign of her.  The entire grounds was empty.

 It wasn't the worst sign - at least the human nobles still seemed to be away.  He returned to the portion of wall just outside the kitchen door, and hesitated.  What he was about to do was unwise on so many levels.  The Keeper would be furious, for starters, that he was lurking around a shemlen dwelling for no other reason than to pursue a pretty girl.  And Freylen...would she care?  Her flippant response to his questioning had rankled him, and he hadn't been entirely honest with her.  Now he felt guilty as well as annoyed.

 Scowling, he shoved the offending thoughts from his mind and hopped onto the flat top of the wall.  One more cautious look about, and then he dropped into the garden, his heart thudding in his ears.  He knocked softly at the door, resisting the urge to flatten himself against the wall afterward.  He didn't want to frighten the senses out of whomever answered.

 It was Marienne.  She gave a startled jump at the sight of him, then grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.

 "Oh, serah, you shouldn't be here," she said, closing the heavy door quickly behind him.  "His Lordship is so angry...."  She wrung her hands together helplessly.

 Instinctively, Atharil reached for an arrow, and the cook gave a tiny squeak of alarm.  His eyes darted about the kitchen.  "Is he here now?"

 "No, no!  He only came to check on the preparations for Lady Colette's party; he's gone home."  She shook her head.  "Poor Elodie...I don't think she'll want to see you now, considering."

 Atharil felt his stomach knot.  "I don't understand.  What's happened?"

 She looked away.  "Someone told him a Dalish was here, serah.  In his house."  She threw her hands up defensively.  "It wasn't me!"

 Atharil struggled with the implication.  "I thought all the servants were elven."

 She nodded.

 He felt his his face growing hot, his hands twitchy.  "Where is Elodie?" he managed, choking back his rage.

 "Oh serah, I don't think-"

 "Where is she?" he shouted, causing the woman to back up into a hanging pot.  "And stop calling me 'serah'!"

 Marienne crossed her arms.  "You don't want to be addressed with respect?  Fine.  But I won't tell you where Elodie is, Atharil.  I think you should go."

 The Dalish felt his lip curling up in an ugly grin.  "I don't think so, Marienne.  If you won't show me to her, I'll find her myself."

  
 Atharil stalked through the vacant mansion as if it were an extension of the forest, an arrow nocked to his bow and his bare feet silent on the stone floors.  He threw glances around doorframes before entering each room, and Marienne followed him, twisting her apron and repeatedly assuring him it would be better for everyone if he left.

 "What's in there?"  The enormous set of double doors was carved with, ironically, images of frolicking elves.  Atharil raised a dubious eyebrow at the choice of decoration.

 "That's the ballroom, but she's not-"  He threw the doors open.  "-in there."

 Marienne was telling the truth, but the room wasn't empty, either.  Another elven girl was within, scrubbing the inlaid marble floors on her hands and knees.  She gasped at the sight of Atharil, and he pointed at her.

 "Is this the one?" he asked Marienne.  Then, without waiting for an answer,  "Did you tell your employer I was here before?"

 The girl paled.  "No, I swear it."  She stood up, looking from Atharil to Marienne uncertainly.  "Are you looking for...whoever did?"

 Marienne frowned.  "He's looking for Elodie, but as I've already told him, I don't think it's a good idea."

 The girl's shoulders relaxed.  "I can take you to her," she said unexpectedly, dropping her brush into a bucket of water.  "It's alright, Marienne.  I'll show him the way."

 Atharil was surprised and pleased to find himself with a new ally.  He watched with some amusement as the cook huffed and walked away, muttering to herself.  "Ma serannas," he said when she was gone.  Then, remembering, "Thank you, I mean."

 "Ma nuvenin."  She smiled at him, wiping a stray wisp of black hair from her face.  "I'm no Dalish, but I am not so ignorant as some.  My parents kept the old ways.  I'm Lisette."

 "Atharil."

 She chuckled.  "Oh, I know who you are.  I share a room with Elodie."  She turned around and motioned for him to follow.  "This way."

 She pressed on a gilded wall panel at the back of the ballroom, and a hidden door swung inward to reveal a plain, narrow hallway.  "This is the fastest way to the servants quarters," Lisette assured him, leading them along the corridor, past a series of doors and intersecting walkways.

 "Why is this part of the house so small?" Atharil asked, claustrophobia gnawing at him once again.  There were no windows in the hall, and he felt as if he were inside a box.

 "This is a servants' passage," she explained.  "It allows us to quickly travel from one part of the house to another without bothering anyone."

 "The shemlen make you scurry through their walls like rats, you mean."  He scowled.

 "There's that famous Dalish condescension.  And here I was afraid I might miss it."

 Taken aback and embarrassed by the rebuke, Atharil didn't respond.  They climbed a narrow, twisting stair to the second floor, and maneuvered a further series of cramped halls.  At last, Lisette opened a door that led onto a wider, windowed corridor.  Atharil breathed a sigh of relief.

 "It's the last door," she told him, pointing down the hallway.  She hesitated.  "You must stay calm for her sake, Atharil.  Don't upset her further."  The words sent a shiver of aprehension down his back.

  
 The curtains had been pulled shut in the tiny room Elodie shared with Lisette, but the material was thin.  There was still plenty of light by which Atharil could see, and what he saw made him stop and cover his mouth with one hand.

 The girl on the bed stirred slightly, and whimpered.  Angry red welts crisscrossed her narrow back, swollen and weeping.  Atharil bit his cheek to keep from cursing, and dropped to his knees on the floor beside her.

 "Elodie," he said softly.  "I'm so sorry.  This is my fault."  He found one of her hands and took it carefully in his own.  He stroked her delicate fingers, mindful not to move her arm or jostle her shoulder.

 She turned her face toward him with effort, her eyes red with tears.  "Atharil," she whispered, the corners of her mouth curving into the smallest smile.  "You came back."

 "Of course I did.  And I'm going to take care of you, I promise."  He forced himself to examine her wounded back once more, pushing aside his outrage in favor of practicality.  "I'll make a poultice, and I'll fetch elfroot for the pain, and...."  He laid his forehead on the back of her hand.  "Ir abelas.  Please forgive me; I had no idea the danger I brought."

 She squeezed his fingers lightly.  "This is not your fault."

 "It is.  But I'm going to put this right, Elodie.  I swear it."

 

 That afternoon, it rained.  Atharil found the gardener holed up in a barn, waiting out the downpour with a bottle of dandelion wine in one hand.  The man never even knew the hunter was there until he dropped out of the loft behind him.

 The ensuing scuffle was brief.  Lukas was handy with a hoe or a pair of shears, but he was no fighter.  Atharil bound his hands behind him before he could land a proper blow, and then kicked him squarely in the center of his back.  He went down like a dead tree in a high wind, and the Dalish sat upon his back.

 "Why?" he asked simply, drawing his dagger.

 "Why what?" the other elf spat, trying to twist his head around.

 Atharil cuffed him in the back of the head.  "Why did you betray your sister?" he asked, his voice even.  "Elodie was beaten because of you."

 Lukas grunted.  "She's no sister of mine."

 "You are both elves.  Did you not feel it disloyal to bring misery upon her?"

 The gardener shifted uncomfortably beneath Atharil's weight.  "It's against the rules, bringing strangers into the house while the family is out.  Especially Dalish savages.  She knew better."

 Atharil considered.  "So you believe she deserved to be stripped to the waist and caned?  For speaking to one of her own people?"  He turned the blade over in his hand, inspecting its honed edge.

 The man snorted.  "You're not one of our people.  You're a dirty knife-ear, and a heathen."

 "You didn't answer my question."  He turned on the man's back, placing a knee on either side of him as if he were a horse.

 Lukas was silent for a moment.  "Yes," he said finally, defiant.  "She broke His Lordship's rules; the little bitch deserved what she got.  Maybe next time she'll have more respect for her betters."

 Atharil smiled.  "You're right," he said softly.  "You and I are not of the same people.  It only appears that way."  He pulled the tip of the man's ear away from his head.  "Shall I remedy that for you?"

 The gardener started to protest, but Atharil's blade was sharp and quick.  In the space of a second it cut through the man's ear, neatly severing the enlongated half.  The mutilated elf screamed and began to writhe beneath him, but Atharil squeezed his legs together and held him in place.  Then he reached down and docked the other ear.

 He'd feared someone would hear the commotion and come running, but there was no response to Lukas's cries, and after a few seconds the man passed out.  Atharil remained astride him for another minute or two, watching as hot blood pumped slowly from his severed extremities.  The sight soothed him, somehow, and he felt some of his rage burning away.  He could function now; he could concentrate on making Elodie comfortable.  He could try to make up for putting her in harm's way in the first place.


	9. Chapter 9

 "Keeper?  He's on his way."

 Tirsas looked up from his reading and forced a smile.  "Ma serannas, Arinna.  I appreciate your help."  Freylen usually ran these errands for him, but he didn't want her involved in this instance.  The matter was too delicate, and much too close to home.

 The girl nodded and withdrew.  Sighing, the Keeper set his book aside and sat up straighter, preparing to greet his guest.  He felt slightly ill at the request he was about to make.

 A few tense moments passed before the person he was awaiting entered the tent.

 "Andaran atish'an, Feyndir," he said, motioning for his clansman to be seated.  He noticed the scout seemed wary, and wondered if there was a reason for it beyond the unexpected summons.

 "You wanted to see me?"

 Tirsas looked at him, thoughtful.  "How are you, lethallin?  Have you recovered completely from your captivity?"

 The other elf smiled slightly.  "It already feels like something that happened long ago, Keeper.  I am focused on the future."

 "Good.  And how is your wife?  Is she adjusting well to her new life?"

 Worry darkened Feyndir's countenance for a split second, and Tirsas made a mental note of it.  "Ryneth is happy here.  She belongs with the People."  He hesitated.  "As will our children."

 Another issue that would need to be addressed, eventually.  Tirsas kept his expression carefully neutral.  "It is good to hear she's comfortable.  I do not see her often in the camp."

 Feyndir glanced away.  "She has been unwell."

 "Nothing serious, I hope?"

 "It will pass.  I'm certain of it."

 Tirsas nodded.  "Good."  He cleared his throat and forced himself to come to the point.  "As you know, Feyndir, our clan is without a Second since...recent events, and we have no mages of sufficient skill to assume the role.  It's a precarious situation."

 The scout raised a brow.  "I hope you're not considering me for the position."

 Tirsas gave a short laugh.  "No, I am not.  But you are a mage - despite your many protestations - and there may be a way you can assist the People in this matter."

 Feyndir appeared dubious, but he nodded.  "I am always ready to be of service, hahren."

 For the hundredth time, the young Keeper considered just forgetting the whole idea.  It was ridiculous and offensive, and he hated even mentioning it.  But if it meant securing a future for Clan Lutharra....

 "I have been in contact with a Dalish clan to the west," he said, rushing to get the words out before he changed his mind.  "There is a boy among them who has recently come into his magic, and they are willing to trade him to us."

 "Trade him?  What do they want in return?"

 Tirsas took a deep breath, fighting the flush that threatened to creep into his cheeks.  He must not show his own discomfort at the proposal.  "The mages in their clan are all closely related.  They would like to introduce fresh blood, to protect their own future."

 Feyndir looked confused, and the Keeper groaned inwardly.  He was going to have to paint a clearer picture.  "Their First is a young woman," he tried again.  "She is willing, if you are...."

 A look of horrified disgust settled over Feyndir's face, and Tirsas knew he understood.  "I am married," he said slowly.  "If you want this, why don't you do it yourself?"

 The Keeper winced.  "You know I do not lay with women, Feyndir."  He tried a different tack.  "It would be a chance for you to have an elven child.  Ryneth would not need to know."  As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized it was the wrong approach.  Feyndir looked ready to leap on him, and Tirsas was reasonably certain it was only respect for his position that restrained him.

 "You sound like Keeper Maeven."  The way he said it made it clear it wasn't a compliment.

 "Keeper Maeven loved this clan, da'len, and gave her life defending it."  It didn't matter that Feyndir was only a couple of years younger than him; in this case, the form of address was a warning.  He would not permit his teacher's name to be sullied in his presence.  He sighed.  "In any case, it is a request, not an order.  I would never demand this of you."

 Feyndir nodded, some of the color returning to his face.  "Then my answer is an emphatic 'no'.  Please never speak of it again."  He stood up, obviously eager to leave.

 Tirsas thought for a moment.  "Very well," he said finally.  "I will not mention it to you again.  You have my word."


	10. Chapter 10

 "No one has seen Lukas in days."  Lisette folded her thin arms across her chest.  "I wonder what happened to him."

 Atharil didn't look up.  "Perhaps he ran off and joined the Dalish."  He continued to apply salve to Elodie's back, his long fingers lightly tracing the raised pink lines.

 "That's very amusing.  Marienne told me there was blood in the barn."

 "Enough to believe him dead?"  Elodie winced, and he paused in his ministrations.

 "Well...no.  I don't think so.  But where is he, then?"

 He shrugged.  "I don't have him tied up somewhere, if that's what you're asking."

 Lisette rolled her eyes.  "I never should have told you it was him.  Now he's gone, and the rest of us will never get everything done in time.  We'll all end up like Elodie."

 Atharil frowned and set the bowl aside before helping Elodie ease into a loose shirt.  "I can help now," she offered.  "I'm feeling much better."  She smiled over her shoulder at the Dalish, and Lisette groaned.

 "You're not well enough yet to be of use."

 "I could help."  The Orlesian elves looked at Atharil in surprise.

 Elodie stifled a laugh.  "You want to decorate for Lady Colette's party?  You?"

 "Of course I don't.  But I don't want to see anyone suffer because of me, either."  He looked at her.  "Anyone else, I mean."

 She laid a hand on his.  "Atharil...."

 Lisette cleared her throat.  "Right.  Well, I'll go pull the banners out of storage, then.  I'll meet you two in the ballroom."  She slipped out of the room with the grace of one accustomed to making herself as unobtrusive as possible, leaving the other two elves awkward in her absence.

 "You don't owe me anything, Atharil," Elodie said finally, staring straight ahead.  "I mean, you don't need to feel that you're obligated...you've done enough."

 "You want me to go?"

 "No!"  She reddened.  "I just don't want you to think you have to stay."

 He laughed softly.  "Is that what you think?  That I'm only here out of a sense of duty?"

 "Well, you did say-" 

 He placed a finger under her chin and turned her face toward him.  "I needed some time, that's all."

 "And now?"

 "Some time has passed."  He brushed her lips with his own, and felt her yielding even at his lightest touch.  It tempted him to go further, but it wasn't the right moment.  "Come, let's not keep Lisette waiting.  I can't wait to see these ridiculous Orlesian banners that need hanging."

  
 The ballroom had been scrubbed and polished to a high shine.  The floors gleamed, sunlight sparkled through the long, arched windows, and the mirrored wall panels reflected light back onto the golden busts that lined the walls.

 "I feel the need to squint."  Atharil shielded his eyes against the worst of the glare, watching his own scowling form cross the empty room.  Did he really appear so...wild?  The Dalish in the mirrors looked as out of place as he felt, a ragged animal in a gilded palace.  For a moment, he was ashamed of his reflection.  And then he was ashamed of being ashamed. 

 "His Lordship would consider that a compliment, I believe."  Lisette rested a long ladder against one of the high beams that crisscrossed the room.

 "Respectfully, may the Dread Wolf take His Lordship."

 "The who now?"  Marienne said.  The cook was watching the activity interestedly, her arms folded.

 Atharil cringed inwardly at her ignorance, but recalled Lisette's previous chastisement concerning 'Dalish condescension'.  "Fen'Harel.  One of the elven gods," he explained, minding his tone.

 Marienne tutted at him.  "Please don't bring that pagan nonsense into this house.  We may be elves, but we are still the Maker's children."  She nodded for emphasis.

 Elodie touched his arm.  "Lukas usually hangs the banners," she said, changing the subject.  "The rest of us are afraid to climb so high, but I've witnessed the easy way you move through the trees.  Would you mind?"

 Atharil frowned at the marble beneath his feet.  "The forest floor is more forgiving of missteps, but I'll do my best."

 "Here," Lisette said, handing him a long blue-and-gold strip of heavy fabric emblazoned with the family's crest.  "The grommets fit over hooks on the beams."

 "Give me several," he told her.  "Less up and down."

 Lisette looked at him strangely.  "But the ladder...okay."  She shrugged and gathered more banners from the ornate chest behind her.  "Here you are, wood elf.  Have at it."

 Atharil was unpracticed at scaling ladders, but he had little difficulty.  When he reached the top and climbed out onto the wide beam upon which it rested, Lisette and Elodie both went pale.

 "You weren't meant to do that!" Elodie shouted up at him.  "You could have reached from the ladder!"

 The Dalish looked out across the intersecting rafters.  "But now I don't need the ladder."  He knelt on one knee and fastened the first cloth in place.  It unfurled into the empty space below with a 'crack' and a thin puff of dust, swaying slightly.  Satisfied, he walked until he reached the next set of hooks, and hung another one.  After the third, he stepped across a thinner, transverse beam, and repeated the process.

 "You know," he commented as he returned to the ladder to fetch more banners, "all your gasping and appeals to your Maker are quite distracting.  If I do fall, it will be because of that."

 "Smart arse."  Lisette was waiting for him with another armful.  Elodie waited beside her, looking faint.

 "Don't worry," he assured her, seeing her concern.  "I walk branches narrower than this all the time.  And they sway."  He looked up.  "At least these shemlen structures don't move beneath one's feet."

  
 He continued festooning the room in his own fashion until the chest was empty and the tops of the dusty beams were covered in Dalish footprints.  It amused him to think that Orlesian nobility would dance unknowingly beneath them, blissfully unaware that a feral elf had had his hands all over their precious family emblems.

 "Done."  He skipped the last few rungs and hopped down, noting as he did so that everyone but Elodie had disappeared.  The other servants certainly seemed eager to allow the two of them time alone.

 "And in a quarter of the time it usually takes.  Well done."  Elodie looked around them in admiration.  "I believe this place is ready for a ball, but shall we test it?"  She withdrew a small, hinged box from a pocket in her skirt.

 "What is that?" 

 "A music box.  It's enchanted to play four different songs."  Elodie grinned sheepishly.  "I borrowed it from Lady Colette's room."  She set the device on the floor and lifted the lid, and a tinkling melody issued from it.

 Atharil looked from the box to Elodie.  She stood up, clasping her hands in front of her and blushing slightly.  As if she were waiting for something.

 "Ah," he said at last, realizing.  "I'm sorry, I don't know how to dance in the style you're expecting."

 She turned even redder.  "Oh, that's alright.  I mean, I should have kno-"

 He couldn't bear the disappointment in her eyes.  "But perhaps you could teach me?"

 "Oh!"  She brightened.  "I would be honored."  She led him through a series of simple steps, then took one of his hands and placed the other one carefully on her back.  "Now you try it."

 It wasn't as complicated as he'd expected, and after a few tries Atharil found he barely needed to think where to put his feet anymore.

 "Look at me, not the floor," Elodie encouraged him softly.

 He looked, and over her shoulder he saw the two of them reflected a hundred times in the room's mirrors.  They looked ridiculous, she in her simple servant's garb and him dressed to blend into the forest, and both of them turning about in a room in which they had no business dancing.  Still, a shiver went through him at the sight.  Somehow, he felt that if he squinted slightly, he could see a dim vision of Arlathan itself.

 

 "There you are."  Freylen stood up and fell into step beside him.  "Out hunting all day, and not so much as a nug to show for it?"

 Atharil scowled.  "I brought in two rams yesterday.  Did the Keeper send you to harrass me?"

 "What?"  She looked genuinely hurt.  "I was just making conversation."

 "Ir abelas," he said, his voice gruffer than he intended.  "What do you want, then?"

 She sniffed.  "Nothing, maybe.  Not if you're going to take that attitude."

 He stopped walking and looked at her.  "You want to come to my tent?"

 Freylen looked around.  It was approaching dusk, and most of the clan was in camp and gathered around various cookfires.  "Right now?"

 He shook his head wearily.  "Goodnight, Freylen."  He started walking again.

 The First hurried to catch up.  "Why not later, when-"

 "When everyone's asleep," he said, finishing her sentence.  "Ma serannas, but no."

 She smirked.  "You'll change your mind.  You'll come to me later all hot and bothered, as usual."

 Atharil's hands balled into fists.  "Please do not wait up expecting me.  You'll be disappointed, I promise you."

 He left her there, staring after him as he stalked off to his tent.  That night, both of them remained in their own beds.


	11. Chapter 11

 "Feyndir?"

 He dropped another log on the fire and sat down beside her.  "Are you warm enough?  There's a chill in the air this evening."

 Ryneth smiled at his concern.  "I'm fine.  It's good of Lemael to keep us all so well-stocked with firewood, isn't it?"

 Feyndir looked at her with suspicion.  "Well, that's his job."  He glanced over his shoulder before continuing in a lower tone.  "He hasn't much skill at anything else, but at least he knows how to swing an axe."

 She nodded.  "He does what he can for the clan.  As must we all."

 "As we do."  He shifted away slightly, studying her face.  "Rabbit, is something wrong?"

 Ryneth stared into the flames, refusing to meet his gaze.  "No, nothing."  She hesitated.  "It's important that everyone contributes, that's all I'm saying.  In whatever way they're able.  Clan Lutharra would not survive otherwise."

 Feyndir felt a prickle of apprehension along his spine.  "You contribute enough, vhenan.  You are still learning, and in your condition...."

 She shook her head.  "Ma serannas, but I wasn't speaking of myself."  She finally turned to face him, her eyes full of pain and determination.

 The prickle turned to a silverite ball and settled in the pit of his stomach.  "Then I don't know what you're talking about."  Of course he did.  Or thought he did, and hoped desperately he was wrong.

 "I spoke with Keeper Tirsas today," she said quietly.  "He told me the request he made of you."

 Feyndir felt the blood leaving his extremities.  "He promised he wouldn't speak of it again."

 She smiled faintly.  "He told me you'd say that.  He also asked me to remind you he only promised to stop mentioning the idea to _you_."

 Physically attacking a Keeper was not a forgivable offense among the Dalish.  At best, he'd be exiled; at worst, executed.  That did not prevent Feyndir from vividly imagining himself drawing a blade across Tirsas's throat, but it did keep him seated.  Barely.

 "I am so sorry," he said, his voice choked.  "I have already refused him.  There was no need for -"

 She placed a hand on his leg.  "I want you to do it, Feyndir."

 He stared at her, aghast, searching her face for some hint that she was joking.  He found nothing.  "No.  Absolutely not, Ryneth.  I cannot believe you're saying this."

 "The clan needs a Second."  She touched his cheek.  "It's our duty to help if we can."

 Feyndir took a deep breath.  "I love the way you've embraced my people and my culture," he told her patiently, "but has it ever occurred to you that you're sometimes...overly enthusiastic?  A little too eager to please?"

 She frowned.  "I'm not asking this to please or impress anyone.  It's what's necessary."

 "It's necessary for me to lay with another woman, probably multiple times, until she's pregnant?  While you're also carrying my child?"  He didn't want to be angry with her, but he was.  "Is that what's necessary, Ryneth?"

 There were tears in her eyes.  "I know what's involved, Feyndir.  You don't have to throw it in my face."

 "Don't I?"  A few heads had turned in their direction, but he didn't care.  "Because I don't feel you really grasp what's been suggested."  He stood up, ran a shaking hand through his dark hair.  "All for a fucking Second."

 "For the future of Clan Lutharra," she said, her voice breaking.  "Tell me you'll at least consider it."

 He looked down at his wife, watching as a teardrop slid down her cheek and left a small wet spot on her tunic.  He wanted to hold her, comfort her, tell her he'd do whatever she asked.  But he couldn't.

 "I will...."  The words tasted bitter in his mouth.  "I will think on it."

  


 Freylen caught him as he was headed out of camp.  He almost waved her away, but she looked worried.  Something was wrong.  Something else.

 "What is it, sister?"  He kept walking.

 "Have you talked to Atharil recently?"  She twisted her fingers, as she always did when she was upset.  It reminded him of when she was younger, and she used to cling to him during thunderstorms.

 He considered.  "I haven't seen much of him lately.  Why?"

 She nodded.  "No one has.  He always hunts by himself now, and most of the time he doesn't bring anything back."

 Feyndir shook his head.  "That doesn't make sense.  Atharil is far too skilled to be returning to camp empty-handed.  Especially here - the Graves are teeming with game."

 "He's different, too." 

 He heard the catch in her voice, and his heart sank.  He stopped and put a hand on her shoulder.  "Different how, da'len?"

 She usually bristled at him when he called her a child, but now she didn't even seem to notice.  "He's cold.  He... he doesn't act as if he likes me anymore!"  She burst into tears and buried her head in his chest, and he put his arms around her.

 So there it was.  Ryneth had told him of the relationship months ago, of course, but until that moment neither Freylen nor Atharil had acknowledged it.  He patted Freylen's back and tried to think of something encouraging to say, but drew a blank.  "I'm sure there's a good explanation," was all he could manage.

 She raised her head and looked up at him, her eyes red.  "Do you think so?"

 He brushed a tear from her face.  "I do.  Atharil is a good man; if you like, I'll find out what's bothering him.  I doubt it's anything to worry about."

 Freylen sniffed loudly.  "Ma serannas, brother."

 He sighed.  "Ma nuvenin."  At least hers was a problem easily handled.


	12. Chapter 12

 Atharil followed Elodie through the sun-dappled woods, a basket tucked under one arm.  It had been a while since the chateau required flowers, but with the nobles arriving in the  morning all the vases needed refreshing.

 "Do you think we'll be able to see each other, after?"  He kept his tone casual.

 Elodie turned around, her hands full of pale yellow blooms.  "After the party?  I don't think so, Atharil."  She laid the flowers carefully in his basket.  "All the servants will accompany the family back to Val Royeaux the following day.  I doubt there will be a chance for me to slip away."

 "You could slip away right now." 

 She looked at him blankly for a moment, then laughed.  "I wouldn't last a week among the Dalish.  I'm not cut out for camping.  Or hunting.  Or," she gestured at his face, "that sort of thing."

 "Oh, I don't know," he teased.  "Mythal's vallaslin would look adorable on you.  It'd highlight your cheekbones."

 "I'm sure it's lovely, but I'm Andrastian."

 He scowled.  "That's a religion for shemlen.  I could teach you the ways of your own people; our history, our-"

 "Atharil," she sighed, "I cannot join your clan.  Please understand."

 "There would be no more stripes on your back," he said quietly.  "I saw the scars; I know this wasn't the first time."

 She shook her head.  "It doesn't happen often.  I just need to be more careful."

 "It should never happen, Elodie.  You should be free, among the People."

 "And would I be safe, then?"  She touched the mottled skin on the side of his face.  "Being Dalish didn't keep you from harm."

 "I killed the mage who did this to me."  He took her hand from his cheek and kissed it.  "And I would kill every shem you serve, given the opportunity."

 Elodie paled.  "Not every human is an enemy."

 He smiled.  "That is true, but I have found very few exceptions."

  
 They were far from the mansion when the first rumble of thunder rolled across the sky.  They started back at once, but the storm moved faster than Elodie could manage, and Atharil refused to leave her.  By the time they arrived back at the mansion, they were both soaked to the skin.  Elodie set the basket of flowers on a table in the kitchen and took Atharil's hand.

 "Come on; we'll catch a chill if we stay in these clothes."  She led him through a pantry and back into the maze of narrow servants' passages he so detested.  He thought of telling her it wasn't necessary, that he didn't mind damp clothing, but another part of his mind overruled him.  He let her lead him where she would.

 He was not greatly surprised when they ended up in her bedroom.

 "I, uh...we should take these off," Elodie said, fumbling at the laces on her shirt.  Her face was bright red, and when he looked at her she didn't return his gaze. 

 Atharil put a hand over hers, and she stilled.  "I'm not sure this is the best idea," he said.  "You're leaving soon."

 "That's why it's a good idea."  She raised her head.  "Atharil, elves in service don't always get to choose.  Things happen, sometimes.  Do you understand?"

 He wished he didn't know what she was saying, but he did.  "Yes," he said softly, "and I'm sorry."

 "Don't be sorry, just...just stay.  I want my first time to be with someone I care about.  Someone who cares about me.  Please, Atharil."

 The breath caught in his throat.  "Alright," he managed, glancing at the sagging, threadbare bed.  "But not here.  You deserve better."

 "There is nowhere-" she began, but he was already leading her back down the hall.  It took some trial and error, but at last the Dalish found what he wanted behind a set of massive oak doors.

 "In here," he said, backing her toward the canopied bed, unfastening his belt as he spoke.

 "We can't!" she said, shocked.  "These are Lady Colette's chambers." 

 "Even better.  That shem owes me a favor."  He pulled his drenched tunic over his head just as a bolt of lightning flashed outside. 

 The back of Elodie's legs hit the edge of the mattress, and she put a hand on his chest.  "You will be careful, won't you?"

 Atharil smiled, trying not to appear as predatory as he felt.  "You may be inexperienced, but I am far from it."  His hands worked her skirt down over her hips until it puddled on the floor at her feet.  "I'll be gentle, I promise."

  
 By the time they were finished, the storm was long gone.  In its wake, the early evening air was cool and sweet, and they both breathed deeply as they stepped outside.

 "I will return early in the morning, before anyone arrives," he told her, pressing his lips to her forehead.  "In the meantime, please consider my offer."

 "I will."  She laughed nervously.  "Though I can't believe I'm even thinking about it, to be honest.  Didn't I tell you earlier I would make a terrible Dalish?"

 "You mentioned something along those lines, yes."  He slipped an arm about her waist and his tongue into her mouth, enjoying one last taste of her.  "But I had hoped I might be able to persuade you otherwise."

 "You are very persuasive," she acknowledged playfully, her green eyes sparkling.  "We shall see."

   
 They parted with backward glances and waves, and when at last the mansion was out of sight Atharil climbed a tree and headed toward camp.  It was nearly dark, but the way was familiar.  He stepped swiftly from one tree to the next, his mind replaying Elodie's quiet moans, his hands recalling her soft curves.  For just a few careless moments, the hunter was off his guard, vulnerable.  He wasn't looking for tracks or bent branches, he wasn't listening for the crack of a dry twig or the rustle of moving leaves.  He didn't realize he was being followed until Feyndir grabbed him by the throat.


	13. Chapter 13

 "Another unsuccessful hunt, lethallin?"  The elf's voice was icy.  "Or did you catch what you were after?"

 Atharil scowled.  "Why are you following me, Feyndir?"

 "Freylen asked me to check on you.  She was worried."  The scout released his grip on his clansman's neck, shoving him away with enough force to make the branch on which they stood bounce.  A handful of leaves shook loose and drifted toward the ground far below.  "I told her you were trustworthy.  'A good man', I said."

 Atharil struggled to steady himself.  "She shouldn't have involved you.  Whatever you think -"

 Feyndir shook his head, a sneer wrinkling his vallaslin.  "What I think is that my sister is little more than a child, and you are taking advantage of her."

 "I'm taking advantage?"  Atharil laughed despite himself.  "Freylen has her vallaslin, Feyndir.  She doesn't need your protection."

 It was the wrong thing to say.  Feyndir stomped hard on the branch, forcing Atharil to seek a lower limb before he completely lost his balance.  Looking up, he saw the glint of metal in his friend's hand.

 "Mythal's mercy!  Put that away."  He held out his hands, palms up.  "I don't want to fight with you."

 "No?  Perhaps you should have considered that before you betrayed Freylen.  Or did you think I would not find out?"  He leapt down to Atharil's level, landing in a crouch the hunter recognized too well.

 "Fenedhis," he breathed, drawing his own dagger with a shaking hand.  "You cannot be serious, my brother."

 "You're no brother to me."  The scout lunged, the hunter darted away, and the chase began.

  
 Atharil headed downward blindly, no goal in mind besides reaching the forest floor.  He'd always been a faster runner than Feyndir; on solid ground, he might have a chance.  If he could get there.

 Down they raced, tossing the branches and flushing out squawking birds as they passed.  Twigs broke free and tumbled down before them, disappearing into the darkness below.  Night was settling over the forest, and as the elves approached the ground Atharil could make out only a black form pursuing him, slashing at the air whenever it drew close.

 Finally, he dropped the final few feet to the ground, and rolled.  When he stood again he could barely see his own hands, though he could feel that they were raw and bleeding from his hurried descent from the canopy.  He gripped his blade tightly and tried to quiet his breathing, peering hard into the shadowy undergrowth.  He'd become disoriented on the way down, and now he was uncertain in which direction lay the safety of Clan Lutharra's encampment.

 Leaves crunched behind him, and the hunter whirled.  "Don't do this, Feyndir.  Whatever the outcome, we will both regret it."

 There was no answer, only a blur of movement.  Then they were both on the ground, struggling against one another in the dirt.  It reminded Atharil of sparring sessions when they were children, and an image of Feyndir's youthful face, free of vallaslin, sprang to his mind.  He cursed and struck out in desperation, and felt the body above him seize.  Taking the opportunity, Atharil pushed himself free and scooted backward, his breath ragged in his throat.

 "Stop this," he pleaded again.  "If not for me, then for Ryneth.  For your family."

 Feyndir struggled to his feet, and Atharil thought he was clutching his side.  "My family," he repeated, wheezing.  "You've broken my sister's heart, Atharil.  You know I raised her after our parents died; you know she is like a daughter to me.  I trusted you, and you deceived us both!"

 "It is not that simple, Feyndir."  He stood up, his legs as shaky as a newborn halla's.  "Freylen-"

 "Freylen was in tears over you."  The elf groaned and listed sideways, steadying himself against a tree.

 Atharil felt as if he'd been punched.  "I...that is unexpected.  I didn't know -"

 "Tell me something."  Feyndir pushed himself upright and stepped closer.  Atharil could make out the blue of his eyes now, narrowed in suspicion.  Or disgust.  "Did you sleep with the flat-ear girl, too?"

 The hunter first tightened his grip on the dagger in his hand, then released it with a sigh.  The blade fell soundless into the earth at his feet.  "Ir abelas, lethallin," he whispered, his eyes downcast.

 Feyndir nodded, thoughtful.  He took another step forward and Atharil retreated instinctively, backing into the wide trunk of an old oak. 

 "I loved your sister, once," the scout reminded him, his voice quiet and even.  "I married Anarra, and I was faithful to her all of her short life, and when she died I thought I would, too."  With a grimace, he jabbed his blade into Atharil's shoulder, pinning him to the tree.  "Consider that."

 Atharil could consider little apart from the white-hot pain shooting through his chest, making tiny spots of light ignite before his eyes.  Dimly, he felt the warmth of his own blood spreading and running down his side.  He reached over with his opposite hand to try and pry the blade out, but as soon as he touched it he felt a jolt like electricity, and nearly vomited.

 "Feyndir," he gasped, blackness crowding the edges of his vision.  "Let me go."

 His clansman leaned in.  "Our families, our blood...." he ran a finger through the gore on Atharil's tunic.  "It is all that remains to elves, and I will defend the honor of mine unto death."  He turned away.  "Dirthara-ma, lethallin."


	14. Chapter 14

 "There you are.  It's late; I was getting worried."  Ryneth lay her stitching aside and stood to greet her husband, but he waved her away.  "What's wrong?"

 "Nothing.  Forgive me; I need rest."  Feyndir unbuckled his harness and let his quiver and bow fall at his feet.  He staggered over to their bed, soft furs piled over sweet rushes, and lay down slowly, one hand clamped against his side.

 Ryneth saw the blood now, staining his clothing a deep red all around the place where he held himself.  A small cry escaped her, and she dropped to her knees beside him on the ground.

 "What happened?  Feyndir, were you attacked?"

 The Dalish closed his eyes, frowning.  A faint orange glow began to emanate from his palms as he drew healing magic from the Fade, the effort requiring all of his concentration.

 "I'll get Freylen.  Her magic is stronger, she can-"

 "No."  He didn't open his eyes, but his tone brooked no argument.  "I can manage this, vhenan."

 Ryneth stared at him.  There was no reason not to ask for help, unless....

 "Who did this to you?"

 "Please, rabbit; no questions.  Not right now."  The light in his hands was growing stronger, and now he placed both of them over his wound.  Ryneth remembered feeling that touch when they'd first met, how the warmth had spread through her twisted knee after she'd fallen from a ledge. 

 "I'll fetch elfroot, then.  Make a poultice."  He nodded slightly, and she smoothed his dark hair back and kissed his forehead.  "I'll be right back."

  
 Outside the tent, Ryneth looked around and scowled.  Whatever had happened to Feyndir, he didn't want anyone to know about it.  Not even her, not really.  And that made her determined to find out.

 She stalked through the camp, thankful that most of her clansmen were finished with their evening meal.  Her morning sickness - she knew it for what it was, now - was beginning to subside, but occasionally a whiff of the wrong sort would still send her running for the bushes.  She didn't have time for that sort of distraction tonight.

 Two guards were engaged in a discussion at the encampment's edge, their heads close together as they tried to argue without disturbing anyone.  One of them kept shaking his head, his arms folded across his narrow chest.

 "He's never out this late.  We should look for him."

 "A waste of time.  He doesn't want to be found, I'm telling you.  He'll return when he's ready."

 Ryneth walked over to them, her heart thumping.  "Who's missing?"

 They turned, and a look passed between them that she knew all too well.  The entire clan accepted her on the surface - they had little choice, as she had the Keeper's support - but she knew disapproving whispers still circulated about the shemlen girl amongst them.  Feyndir kept assuring her these would stop in time, but in truth she wasn't certain they would ever completely cease.

 "Atharil hasn't reported in this evening."  The elf shrugged.  "He's squirrelly these days."

 "He likes his privacy, but he always checks in on time.  Always."  The one with his arms crossed was careful to address his companion, not her.  He avoided her gaze entirely.

 Ryneth paused at the mention of her friend's name.  Surely if they'd been together, Feyndir would not have returned home without him, yet the chances that both of them met with misfortune separately on the same evening seemed slim.  "I'm headed out," she said, answering the guard who'd spoken to her.  "I'll keep an eye out for him."

 They should have stopped her, or at least questioned why she was leaving camp alone after nightfall, but of course they didn't.  Probably hoping she'd stumble across a sleeping bronto in the darkness, she thought with a wry smile.  Then it would be the will of the Creators that she perished.  Or, they'd simply see it as proof that shemlen weren't meant to live in the Dalish wilds.

  
 Out of the guards' sight, Ryneth started hunting about for the plants she needed.  She was worried about Atharil, but had no idea where to start looking for him.  She also knew that what one of the guards had said was true - the hunter had been reclusive of late, and it was entirely possible that he was in no danger at all.  Feyndir, on the other hand....

 A rustle in the bushes caught her attention.  Instinctively, she reached back and touched an arrow in her quiver, preparing to draw.  At the same time, her mind registered the probable size of the animal based on the noise it created.  It was likely just a fennec, or a nug.

 Or a hare.  The creature hopped into view and stared at her, wiggling its nose, its white fur gleamed softly in the moonlight.  It was a pretty thing, and an unusual color.  Ryneth hesitated a moment before drawing on it. 

 Her shot went wide, despite the beast's proximity.  It raced off, disappearing back into the brush, and she cursed.  Then she went to retrieve her arrow.  It took a bit of searching to find it in the dark, but when she finally stood back up with it in her hand she saw the hare again.

 It was farther away now, but still watching her.  She took a few steps toward it, and it hopped away.  Not out of sight, though.  It almost seemed to be taunting her, daring her to allow herself to be distracted and give chase.  Thinking how lovely its fur would look accenting baby clothing, Ryneth followed.

 She loosed several more arrows at the creature as it retreated further into the woods, but each one missed.  It was frustrating.  Ryneth's proficiency with a bow had improved markedly since she'd been with the Dalish, and she couldn't understand why she was having such trouble.  She was about to give up and return to gathering elfroot when her last shot pierced the hare's snowy side.  It collapsed with a final squeak.

 Ryneth walked over to the animal and bent down.  As she did, a flash of silverite caught her attention.  A dagger lay abandoned in the dirt.  She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, the familiar carved antler handle sending a jolt of recognition through her.  It was Atharil's blade.

 A groan nearby sent a further shiver down her back, and she whirled about.  A shadow moved against a tree, raising one shaking hand toward her before letting it drop again in defeat.  "Ryneth," it said, with a voice that was almost a whisper.  "Lethallan."

 "Atharil?"  She stuck his dagger into her own belt.  "What happened?"

 "Pull...."  The pale elf swallowed.  "Pull it out.  I can't do it."

 She didn't know what he meant at first, but then the moon emerged from behind a cloud. 

 "Atharil!"  The front of his tunic was covered in blood running from a blade embedded up to its hilt in his shoulder.  And this dagger, too, was familiar.  "Hold on!"

 He nodded, his pupils wide with shock.  Ryneth gripped Feyndir's blade in both hands and tugged with all her might, stumbling backward as it came free of tree and elf in one movement.  Atharil cried out and fell onto his knees, fresh blood pumping from the hole near his armpit.

 Ryneth wasted no time.  She tore strips from her own tunic to make dressings, and bound up the hunter's wounds as best she could.  "Come on," she told him, kneeling beside him and throwing his opposite arm over her shoulders.  "You need healing; we have to get back to camp."

 Atharil allowed her to help him to his feet, but then tried to shrug off her support.  "You're pregnant.  I can't let you...."

 Ryneth huffed and held onto his hand.  "Then you'd better try to support yourself, lethallin, because I'm not letting go."  She started forward.

 "Ryneth."  Atharil stopped her.  "You know who did this."

 "I do.  And I know what you did to him, but I don't care about that right now.  I just need to fix the two of you, and then I'll kill you both."

 He laughed, the sound a short, dry bark.  "When we get to camp, take me to Tirsas."

 "Not Freylen?" 

 "No."  He grimaced.  "And when the Keeper asks what happened, say you don't know.  Promise me."  He looked at her, his brows knitted together over his light blue eyes.  "Whatever happens, whatever he says, you must not tell him anything."

 Ryneth nodded.  "I promise."


	15. Chapter 15

 "This is ugly."  Tirsas bent over Atharil, examining his injury by the light of a small fire that burned in the center of his tent.  "You're fortunate Ryneth found you when she did, or you might well have bled to death."  He flicked his wrist, drawing a bright ball of glowing magic from the Fade as easily as snapping his fingers.  Ryneth stared at it in awe, thinking how hard Feyndir had to work to achieve weaker results.  It was no wonder he denied it whenever he was called a mage.

 Without ceremony, the Keeper plunged two luminescent fingers into the hole in Atharil's shoulder.  The hunter twisted his head away, stifling a cry.  "Ir abelas, but I need to heal this from the inside out."  He rotated his hand, and Ryneth saw Atharil grip the furs he lay upon until his knuckles turned white.  True to his Dalish upbringing, however, no sound of distress escaped him.

 "Now, how did this happen?"  Tirsas removed his fingers and wiped them on a torn cloth.

 Atharil stared up at the tent's center, where smoke drifted out through a round opening into the night sky.  "I told you already.  I was hunting a ram, and it-"

 The Keeper sighed.  "Ma harel, da'len.  This wound is from a blade.  Try again."

 The pale elf's jaw tightened.

 Tirsas waited a moment before turning to Ryneth.  "Who was it, lethallan?  His reluctance to speak suggests the assailant was a clansman."

 "I...."  Ryneth could feel her face turning red.  She'd never been very good at lying, and she especially hated being deceitful with the Keeper.  "I don't know."  She stared at the ground before her.

 Tirsas rubbed at his temples, and tried again.  "Tell me, Atharil.  I am asking as your Keeper."  There was a warning in his voice that sent a tingle down Ryneth's spine, but the injured hunter remained silent.  "You know what it means to refuse."

 "What does it mean?"  Ryneth looked from one of them to the other, but neither would meet her gaze.

 "It means banishment," Tirsas said finally, frowning.  "Temporarily, at least.  Until he is feeling more cooperative."

 She rocked back on her heels.  "But that isn't fair - he came to you for help!"

 "And I have helped him.  Now I must protect the rest of the clan."  He looked up, his hazel eyes burning into hers.  "You are new to this life, but even you must realize how dangerous this situation is.  One of our People has attacked another; I cannot turn a blind eye, da'len."

 "It's alright, Ryneth."  Atharil managed a thin smile.  "Don't worry about me.  It's not good for...you."

 She took his hand, feeling his fingers close weakly around hers.  "You're still unwell.  How will you hunt, how will you protect yourself in this state?"

 Tirsas, watching them both intently, coughed.  "Atharil may remain here until morning.  Once daylight breaks he must leave camp, but no one would be censured if they wished to accompany him." 

 There was something in the Keeper's expression that reminded Ryneth of his predecessor, and it occurred to her that she was being manipulated somehow.  Nevertheless, she nodded.

 "I will, then."  She squeezed Atharil's hand.  "I'll go with you.  You won't be alone, lethallin."

  
 She left him then, wrapped in furs beside the Keeper's fire, and made her way back to her own tent.  Inside, she found Feyndir awake and awaiting her return.  He had discarded his bloodied clothing, and she could see the gash in his side clearly now.  It didn't look nearly as serious as Atharil's wound, but the dark circles under his eyes told her he'd likely been summoning healing magic off and on ever since she left. 

 Ryneth dropped her bag on the ground.  "I have your elfroot," she said.  "I also retrieved this for you."  She tossed his dagger onto the furs beside him, and he picked it up with a scowl.

 "You found him, then.  Too bad - I was hoping he'd be stuck to that tree all night."

 "If he was, he'd likely have been dead by morning."  She shook the plants out into a bowl and began crushing them with a pestle, using far more force than was necessary.

 Feyndir watched her out of the corners of his eyes.  "Don't you even want to know what the fight was about?"

 "Not really."  She could feel a flush creeping into her cheeks.  "Maker, Feyndir, what were you thinking?"

 "The Maker?"  He arched an eyebrow.  "I haven't heard his name in a while."

 She added a few drops of water to the mixture.  "Yes, well, I'm not feeling particularly elfy at the moment."

 Feyndir started to laugh, then winced.  "You remember the Orlesians Atharil rescued a while back?"

 "When he killed the bear?"

 He nodded.  "He's been carrying on a relationship with the servant.  I caught him with her tonight."

 Ryneth stared at him.  "Does Freylen know?"

 "Of course not.  And I suppose I'll have to be the one to tell her; I doubt he has any intention of confessing."

 She shook her head.  "He won't have the opportunity, anyway.  The Keeper has banished him come daylight." 

 Feyndir struggled to sit up, but only managed to prop himself on one elbow.  "You took him to the Keeper?"

 "I had no choice.  He needed healing, and the only other options were you or Freylen.  Atharil wouldn't go to her, and I guess now I know why."

 He shut his eyes.  "What did he tell Tirsas?"

 "Nothing."  She picked up the bowl.  "He refused to give up your name."

 Feyndir exhaled and lay back, looking pale.  Ryneth stretched a strip of thin cloth over his wound and began to apply the poultice. 

 "I'm sorry."  He squeezed her shoulder.  "I let my anger get the better of me, rabbit."

 Ryneth paused.  "Does this mean you'll forgive him, then?"

 He scowled.  "No.  It means I regret that I put our future in jeopardy.  But I do not regret sticking a blade in that sneaky little bastard.  Not for one second."


	16. Chapter 16

 When Ryneth went to meet him in the morning, Atharil had already gone.  It took her most of the morning to find him, sitting cross-legged on a hill with his back against a tree, looking down over the walls of a bustling courtyard.

 "I was too late," he told her, gesturing toward the mansion.  "The shems have already arrived."

 Ryneth studied the scene below.  "That's a lot of people.  What's going on?"

 "A party."  Atharil wrinkled his nose.  "Some decadent, overblown Orlesian affair for the daughter of an asshole."  He stuck out a thumb and closed one eye.  "I could hit the lot of them with arrows from here."

 She folded her arms.  "If you could draw a bow, you mean.  How's your shoulder?" 

 "It's...better."  He tried to roll it back, and winced.  "I would have gotten here earlier, but I think Tirsas put something in my tea last night.  And now Elodie has lost her chance; one more person I've let down."

 Ryneth knelt beside him.  "Her chance at what?"  She didn't need to ask who Elodie was.

 Atharil looked at her.  "She was considering joining our clan.  She meant to give me her answer this morning."

 She tried to contain her surprise.  "And you were planning to just walk into camp with this girl?  Do you really have no regard for Freylen at all?"

 He looked stung.  "Things between Freylen and I are complicated.  I tried explaining that to Feyndir, but he was not in a mood to listen."

 "He was shocked, I think.  Not that it excuses what he did."

 "Not that it...."  He studied her.  "Are you still angry with him?"

 "Of course!  He left you for dead, Atharil.  Aren't you angry?"

 He shook his head.  "Feyndir could have easily killed me; I had dropped my dagger.  He only wanted to teach me a lesson."

 Ryneth snorted.  "He stabbed you."

 "I wounded him first."  He plucked a blade of grass, twisted it in his hands.  "How is he, by the way?"

 "He'll be alright.  He was still asleep when I left."

 "Good."  Atharil tossed the mangled plant aside.  "It was defensive, you know.  I didn't want to hurt him, but he was on top of me."

 She paled.  "I can't begin to picture it.  You're best friends; more than that, even."

 "I think that's what upset him most, to be honest.  He mentioned Anarra, that he was always true to her...."  He looked away.  "Ir abelas, I don't mean to upset you."

 Ryneth gave him a wan smile.  "I'm not in competition with your sister's memory, Atharil.  I know Feyndir loved her, so I love her, too.  Even though we never met."

 "That's...generous of you.  You never fail to be kinder than anyone has a right to expect, Ryneth."

 She shrugged.  "Kind for a shemlen, anyway."

 "You know I don't think of you like that."  He hesitated.  "And I'm sorry you're seeing a darker side to Dalish life right now.  You've been so accepting, so quick to learn our ways...."

 Ryneth laughed.  "Feyndir recently told me I'm overly enthusiastic.  I've been a little blinded, perhaps."

 Atharil smiled.  "Love does that to a person."

 "Yes."  She blushed, and looked away down the hillside.  "Will you wait here for your Elodie, then?"

 He shook his head.  "No.  She won't try to leave, now.  She is too accustomed to following orders."

 Ryneth sighed.  "Perhaps when the nobles have gone-"

 "When they depart, so will she.  It's alright, lethallan."  He stood up, careful to keep his shoulders straight.  "Come, we should leave before one of those Chevaliers in the garden spots us.  You're still wanted in Ferelden, and I look like a bit of sport to them.  We'll find a cave where I can hole up for a while, then you can hunt for our breakfast."  He grinned sheepishly.  "I am sorry to be a burden."

 Ryneth picked up his pack.  "Remember your Vir Adahlen, hunter," she quipped.  "Together we are stronger."


	17. Chapter 17

 "Ah, Feyndir.  I was hoping I'd catch you."

 The scout groaned inwardly as Tirsas fell into step beside him.  "Good morning, hahren," he said, letting his hand fall away from the bandages beneath his clothes.  "What can I do for you?"

 "Your friend Atharil had a rough night."  The Keeper studied Feyndir's gait openly as he spoke.

 "So I heard.  Ryneth said you banished him."

 Tirsas nodded.  "It was necessary, sadly.  His decision to protect his assailant's identity puts the entire clan at risk.  I hope he will soon rethink it."

 Feyndir snorted.  "Who can say?  I certainly do not claim to know his mind."

 "Do you not?  I would have expected you to know it well, given how close you've always been."  He stopped walking.  "I imagine Atharil is equally close to the person who wounded him.  Why else would he endure punishment for their sake?"

 "I'm sure I've no idea."  Feyndir met the Keeper's gaze evenly.  "Ara seranna-ma, but I need to find my wife now."

 Tirsas raised a brow.  "She isn't here in camp, da'len.  Didn't she tell you?"

 "Tell me what?"  Feyndir felt his ribcage burning where his clansman's blade had met flesh, but ignored it.  "Where is she?"

 "With Atharil, somewhere in the Graves.  She volunteered to look after him while he recuperates."  He shrugged.  "I'd have thought he'd prefer Freylen's company, to be honest.  How is your sister, anyway?"

 Feyndir knew Tirsas was baiting him, but even so it took all his will not to raise his voice.  "She is well," he managed, forcing a smile that felt - and likely looked - more like a snarl.

 "I'm glad to hear it.  I only ask because I thought I saw her crying the other day, when she was speaking with you.  But perhaps I was mistaken."  He clapped Feyndir on the back, and the elf winced despite himself.  "Go back to your tent and rest now, da'len.  You seem tired this morning.  I'll find someone else to cover your territory."

 He knew.  Feyndir felt his heart pick up speed at the realization, heard it thudding hard in his ears.  "Ma serannas, hahren," he said, unable to keep a slight tremor from his voice.

 "Ma nuvenin."  The Keeper turned away, then stopped.  "Oh, Feyndir," he said, looking back over his shoulder, "I know I promised I wouldn't speak of it, but have you given any more thought to the favor I asked of you?"

 A chill like ice-water rushed through Feyndir's veins.  "I...have been considering it."

 "Good."  The corners of Tirsas's mouth turned up.  "The People would be extremely grateful if you agreed to help Clan Lutharra, of course, but it's your choice."

 "Yes, Keeper."  They parted then, and Feyndir made his way back to his tent on shaking legs.  Whether the weakness was from his injury or Tirsas's words, he wasn't certain.


	18. Chapter 18

 "So what does 'complicated' mean, exactly?"  Ryneth poked at the fire, sending up a shower of sparks.

 Atharil stared up at the naked ass of the elven warrior painted on the rock above them, avoiding her gaze.  "Freylen treated me like a plaything.  If I'd had to guess, I would have said she had no real feelings for me at all, yet Feyndir claimed she wept when I turned her away.  I have trouble imagining that."  He sighed.  "You chose this campsite for the artwork, didn't you?"

 She glanced up at the towering figure and smirked.  "Of course not.  I picked this spot because the cave underneath this handsome fellow is dry, defensible, and spider-free.  Who is he, anyway?"

 "I don't know.  Elgar'nan the All-Father, maybe."  A dark look passed across his face.

 "What's wrong?"

 "Nothing."  He wrapped a blanket around his narrow shoulders, moving slowly to avoid aggravating his wound. 

 Ryneth pointed her stick at him, its tip glowing red where she'd been prodding the flames.  "Don't lie to me, Atharil; I know a brooding elf when I see one."

 He smiled faintly.  "How are you feeling?  Your dinner isn't about to make a reappearance, is it?"

 She blushed.  "It is not.  And you are changing the subject."

 "If the nausea is fading, then you'll start showing soon."  He cocked his head to the side.  "Perhaps you are already, now that I look closer."

 Ryneth placed a protective hand over her stomach.  "Don't say that.  We're not ready for the whole clan to know."

 Atharil frowned.  "New life is enansal, lethallan - a blessing.  It's a joy to be shared, not a secret to be hidden.  If it were my child, I would-"  His face turned a fiery shade of red all the way to the tips of his long ears, and he looked away.  "Creators, I didn't mean it like that.  It's just...I'm very happy for you and Feyndir.  I wish you understood how fortunate you are."

 "We do understand, lethallin."  She reached for his hand, but he pulled it back as though she were blighted.  For a moment, neither of them spoke.  The fire crackled noisily in the silence, and an owl hooted somewhere in the near distance. 

 Ryneth cleared her throat.  "You don't deserve this exile, Atharil.  Maybe you should tell the Keeper it was Feyndir who stabbed you."

 The elf laughed mirthlessly.  "And do you know what would happen to your husband if I did?"  He gestured about them.  "He'd be the one out here, and there would be no possibility of return.  He'd have to find a new clan willing to take him in - difficult enough on its own, and impossible with an expectant human wife."  He shook his head.  "Most Dalish clans would sooner kill you both."

 "But then how-"

 The hunter's eyes glittered.  "There's a reason the Keeper encouraged you to come with me, I think."

 Ryneth considered his words.  "Feyndir will be worried," she mused.  "He'll want me to return to camp, but...."  She looked up at Atharil, startled.  "Tirsas sent me out here to punish Feyndir, didn't he?"

 Her companion tried to shrug, and winced.  "It seems the Keeper already suspects it was Feyndir who fought with me.  He'll make inquiries until he's certain, then come up with some sort of penance that lets everyone save face and avoid more drastic measures."

 She frowned.  "How can you be so sure?"

 Atharil smiled, the expression made vaguely sinister by the glow of campfire on his face.  "We elves fight amongst ourselves with shocking regularity, Ryneth.  It's not something we're proud of, but that doesn't make it any less true.  Trust me; the Keeper will find a way to sort this out."

  
 Ryneth slept poorly that night.  The ground was hard, the air was cold, and Atharil's words played over and over in her head.  Was this what she had to look forward to as a Dalish?  A life full of petty violence and feuding, always worrying about offending the wrong person...and knowing that Feyndir could be that wrong person?  She shivered and wrapped one arm over the small, firm rise of her abdomen.  Could she bring her child up in that life, and should she?  A small voice in the back of her mind kept reminding her that the baby would appear human.  No one would know it was elf-blooded unless she told them.  She didn't have to stay....

 The sound of distant crashing snapped her out of her worrying.  Something large was moving through the underbrush, breaking branches and shaking the earth as it moved.  And it was getting closer.

 "The fire!" Atharil hissed.  He was on his feet faster than Ryneth would have thought possible, kicking dirt over the smoldering remains of their campfire.  "Into the cave!"  He took her hand in the darkness and pulled her to her feet.  She stumbled, groggy with fatigue.

 "What is it?"  She looked in the direction of the growing sounds, but at first saw nothing.  Then, to her horror, a gray face emerged high among the trees, enormous tusks jutting from either side of its head.  A giant.  She choked back a scream and grabbed for her things, then she and Atharil fled toward the safety of the narrow cavern.  Behind them, the giant leapt.

 They made it inside just as the creature landed, the force of it nearly knocking them off their feet.  They backed away from the cave's mouth, retreating together into the cold darkness.  A massive hand following them a moment later.  It swept back and forth, searching, and the creature to whom it belonged grunted heavily as it sought its prey.  The cave was deep as well as narrow, however, and its long arm was not sufficient to reach them.

 Atharil sighed in relief as the creature at last withdrew its appendage and stomped off.  "Good thinking, camping by a cave," he said, his voice strained.  "We'd be goo on the bottom of that thing's hairy feet, otherwise."

 "I had no idea there were giants in this part of the Graves."  Ryneth put her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

 "I'm as surprised as you."  Atharil squinted at her in the gloom.  "Are you alright?"

 "Fine.  Just a little-"  She broke off abruptly at a sound in the distance.  "Fenedhis, I think it's coming back!"  They listened as the giant's footfalls grew louder once more.  Ryneth found her bow and nocked an arrow.  "If it reaches in here again, I'll shoot its fingers off."

 Atharil eyed the entrance.  "That will only anger it further," he warned.  "It might be better just to keep quiet and wait it out."

 They could see the creature's lower body when it emerged into the clearing again.  It was walking slowly, its legs wide as if struggling under a weight, and Atharil swore under his breath.  He tugged at Ryneth's arm.  "Watch out," he muttered, pulling her even farther into the blackness.  "The damn thing's got a rock."


	19. Chapter 19

 "Someone attacked Atharil."  Freylen threw aside the tent's flap without announcing herself, and ducked inside.  "Tell me it wasn't you."

 Feyndir pulled a blanket of fennec pelts across his bare chest, but not quickly enough.  Freylen reached down and yanked it away, scowling at the red, jagged cut beneath.  "At least he gave as good as he got.  Creators, brother, why did you do it?  I only wanted you to speak with him!"

 "I know; I lost my temper.  But he deserved it."

 She shook her head.  "What could he possibly have done-"

 "He's cheating on you, da'len."  He didn't mean to say it so abruptly, but there it was. "That's why he's been acting oddly, and that's why he hunts alone and returns with nothing.  He's been meeting a flat-ear servant at one of the Orlesian summer houses.  I'm sorry."

 Freylen's expression didn't change, but some of the color faded from her cheeks.  The light smattering of freckles across her nose stood out in contrast to her sudden paleness.  "Oh...well," she said, fumbling for words as she knelt down beside him.  "That does explain a lot."

 Feyndir saw the hurt in her eyes, and was glad Atharil was no longer in camp.  For everyone's sake.  "He is unworthy of you."  He didn't know what else to say.

 Freylen managed a thin smile.  "Perhaps."  There were tears in the corners of her eyes, and she wiped them away impatiently.  "You need healing, brother."

 He allowed her to change the subject, to distract herself from the pain.  "I have been working at it," he said, inspecting the gash.  "It looked much worse earlier."

 She rolled her eyes.  " _Proper_ healing.  Not that sad, weak magic you conjure."  She placed a hand on his shoulder.  "Lie down."  Feyndir did as she asked, shrinking slightly as her Fade-warmed fingers traced the tear left by Atharil's blade.  "When you are recovered, we need to find Atharil.  I need to talk to him."

 He closed his eyes at her careful touch, and could feel his flesh mending itself.  It was an odd sensation, but not uncomfortable.  "I'm fairly certain the Keeper doesn't want me anywhere near Atharil right now.  And that's probably for the best."

 Freylen snorted.  "And what about Ryneth?  Your wife is out there in the forest, playing nurse to a man with questionable scruples.  Doesn't that worry you?"

 Feyndir laughed out loud.  "Even if I didn't trust Ryneth - which I do, completely - Atharil would never take an interest in her.  She's a shemlen, Freylen!  He'd sooner hump a halla."

 "I don't know about that."  Her voice was smooth, quiet.  "Whose idea do you think it was to invite her into the clan, even before you married her?"

 He opened his eyes and looked at her, startled.  "I assumed it was yours, da'len."

 "I was Keeper at the time, so it was my decision to make."  She leaned in slightly.  "But it was Atharil's suggestion."

 

 Ryneth coughed, choking on the dust that rose from the rubble.  The giant had thrown the boulder it carried, but the mouth of the cave wasn't wide enough for the massive stone to reach them.  Instead, it was wedged in the entrance, bits of wall crumbling about it.  They were safe, but trapped.

 Moonlight still filtered in through the cracks in the debris, but not enough to see anything clearly.  Ryneth could make out a thin black outline that must be Atharil, stumbling to his feet nearby, and she called out to him.

 "Are you hurt?"

 The shape turned.  "No, only knocked over.  You?"

 "I'm fine."  She made her way over to him, stepping carefully in the darkness.  "I don't think we're getting out the way we came in, though."  He didn't respond, and now Ryneth could hear his ragged, labored breathing.  She reached out a tentative hand and met his where he held it pressed against his shoulder.  "You _are_ hurt."

 "I may have reopened the wound a bit," he admitted, and she thought she could make out a faint smile on his face through the gloom.  "It's nothing to worry over, though.  You didn't happen to grab a blanket as we were fleeing for our lives, did you?"

 Ryneth shook her head, then realized he mightn't be able to see the gesture.  "I didn't."

 Atharil sighed.  "Neither did I.  I'm afraid it's going to be a long, cold night for us, then."  He removed her hand from his shoulder and led her over to the wall.  "Sit down."  He slid down first, his back to the unyielding stone, and brought Ryneth to rest in front of him between his bent legs.

 "But we need to look for a way out of here," she protested, the cave floor hard beneath her.  She could feel its chill creeping through her clothes, and shivered.

 "In the morning, when there's more light," Atharil promised.  He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her toward him until her back rested against his chest.  She stiffened briefly, wondering whether such closeness was appropriate, but the elf's body was so warm she didn't want to resist.  After a moment, he wrapped his arms around her, and she leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

 "Atharil?" she asked, yawning.

 "Yes, lethallan?"  His voice was a low rumble by her ear. 

 "What do you think Feyndir is doing right now?"

 The hunter chuckled.  "Worrying about you, probably.  And his child."  He held her tighter.  "But I swear to Mythal I will look after both of you for him."  He laid a chaste kiss on the crown of her head.  "Now go to sleep."


	20. Chapter 20

 "This is beyond frustrating."  Feyndir itched at the fresh scar along his side.  His sister's magic had closed the wound, but he'd bear the reminder of his fight with Atharil the rest of his life.  "Three days now we've been looking - maybe they aren't even in the Graves anymore."

 Freylen shook her head.  "Neither of them was in any shape to go too far.  Honestly, I don't know what the Keeper was thinking, sending a pregnant woman to look after an injured man."

 Feyndir scowled, but said nothing.  He ran along a moss-covered root, the cool springiness of the plant soothing his tired feet.  They would need to turn back soon, another day of of fruitless searching behind them.  But not yet.  Feyndir ached to see Ryneth's face again, to hear her voice.  He wasn't quite ready to admit defeat and face another night without her.

 He stopped suddenly as his sibling's words sank in.  "You know Ryneth is pregnant?  How?"

 "You really thought Atharil wouldn't mention something like that to me?"  She fixed him with a withering look.  "Although it would have been nicer to hear it from my brother."

 Feyndir ducked his head, sheepish.  "We were not quite ready to deal with everyone's reactions, but you're right.  I should have told you.  Ir abelas."

 She smiled, mollified.  "I don't think Tirsas knows yet, if that's any consolation.  He still prefers to pretend there isn't a shemlen in his clan, so he has a bit of a blind spot where Ryneth is concerned."  She arched a brow.  "He'll want to discuss it with you both when he finally figures it out, though."

 "That's what worries me."  Feyndir eyed up the surrounding trees.  "Wait here."  He scrambled up an ancient oak with practiced ease and surveyed the area.  There was a great bear foraging far off to the west, but otherwise he saw no signs of movement.  He was about to head back down when he noticed the remains of a campfire in the distance.  It didn't appear recent, but it was worth a look.

 

 Atharil could tell by the slant of the sunlight through the rubble that another afternoon was marching toward evening.  He inspected the fingers of his right hand, scraped and bloodied from shifting rocks, and sighed.  Even with both hands, it would have been slow work clearing the cave's entrance.  With one arm rendered practically useless by the stiffness in his shoulder, it was nearly impossible.

 Not that Ryneth hadn't offered to help.  He looked down at her now, her head resting on his thigh as she slept, and frowned.  She'd carried some of the smaller rocks the first day, but the sight of a woman lifting stones in her condition worried him so much he eventually begged her to stop.  Now he wondered if it would have been better to let her continue.  If they didn't get out of the cave soon, if they didn't find food and water, she might lose the child, anyway.

 "Sylaise forbid," he muttered, looking toward the blackness at the rear of the cave.  They'd found no other exit back there, but they did discover a few nugs who'd gotten trapped in the darkness with them.  Good eating, if only there was enough fuel in the cave to sustain a cookfire.  Ryneth had flint and steel in the pack she'd managed to snag during their escape, but the handfuls of dry leaves near the cave's entrance wouldn't be enough to keep a fire burning.  Of course, they could always skip the cooking....

 Atharil wrinkled his nose at the thought.  Not today, but maybe tomorrow.  Probably tomorrow.  He'd tell Ryneth eating raw meat was an old elven custom; that ought to be enough to get a few bites into her.  He smiled to himself, idly brushing a lock of tawny hair from the human woman's face.  How had she ever come to be so enamored with his kind, when most of her people saw elves as little better than vermin?

 He already knew the answer, of course.  It was because of Feyndir.  He saw it in the way they looked at each other, the way they stood close together, finished one another's thoughts.  Ryneth had first loved Feyndir, and the force of her affection became so strong it washed over onto everything that was part of him.  His clan, his culture, everything his people knew of their noble and tragic history; she held all of it as dearly as if she were born to the Dalish.

 Atharil felt a pang of jealousy at the idea.  He hadn't even been able to convince Freylen to acknowledge him as her lover, and Elodie had returned to Val Royeaux rather than risk trying to make a new life by his side.  What must it be like to know someone was willing to reshape their whole world to be with you?

 The hunter scowled.  He shouldn't have let Ryneth come with him.  At the time, it hadn't seemed an overly dangerous plan, but now he realized how foolish he'd been.  She should be safely back in camp, not here in a dusty cave slowly starving.  He'd been selfish, allowing his desire for companionship to override his better judgement.

 Atharil shifted carefully, removing his leg from under Ryneth's head and replacing it with her pack.  She murmured something incoherent, but didn't awaken.  He stood up and walked over to the pile of rocks that rested between them and the outside world, trying to ignore the growing weakness in his extremities.  He put his bloodied hand to the stack and took a deep breath.

 Then he heard her.  Heard _them_.  Their voices were raised, arguing, but he was thankful for that.  If they hadn't been nearly yelling, he wouldn't have known they were there at all.

 "Hey!" he shouted, pounding his fist uselessly against the rocks.  "In here!  Freylen!  Feyndir!"  Behind him, he heard Ryneth gasp, and turned to see her struggling to her feet.

 "Feyndir is out there?" she asked, peering at him through bleary eyes.  She looked so pale, her eyes shining with hope above dark circles.  Atharil saw her wobble and embraced her, as much to hold her up as to comfort her.

 "Yes.  Everything will be alright now, lethallan.  He's come for you."


	21. Chapter 21

 "I'm sorry."  Freylen stared straight ahead into the flames, avoiding his gaze.  "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

 Seated beside her on the log, Atharil looked up at the starry sky and inhaled deeply.  It was a relief to be outdoors again, and now that his belly was full of roasted nug he could feel the fog lifting from his mind, as well.

 "It's my fault."  He didn't know if he really believed that, but she sounded so miserable he didn't want to hurt her further.  "I should have told you there was someone else."

 "I think you tried to, in your way."  She smiled, but he could see her eyes were glassy with unshed tears.  "In any case, we were never serious.  Right?"

 "Freylen...."  He reached toward her, but she shied away. 

 "Don't.  I'm fine."  She took a steadying breath.  "After Anarra was killed, and the clan finally found a new place to settle for a while, Feyndir didn't leave our tent for weeks.  Do you remember that?"

 Atharil hazarded a glance across the campfire.  He and Feyndir hadn't spoken more than a handful of words to each other since Freylen had used her magic to dislodge the boulder.  "Vaguely.  I was mourning Anarra myself, along with others.  It's difficult to recall that time with any clarity."

 Freylen snorted.  "You're lucky, then.  I remember bringing him food and begging him to eat, trying to convince him to sit up, to change his clothes, to do something.  We had just lost both our parents, and I was terrified I'd lose him, too."  She shook her head.  "I was twelve years old, Atharil.  It shouldn't have been left to me."

 He stared at her.  Everyone knew Feyndir had been inconsolable after his wife's death, but somehow Atharil had never realized how deeply it'd affected his younger sister.  He doubted anyone had.  "You're right," he said after a moment's consideration.  "You shouldn't have had to bear that burden alone, and I'm sorry that you did.  I should have-"

 She waved a hand at him.  "Almost everyone lost someone when the shems attacked.  The clan was in chaos; I don't blame anyone for overlooking one scared kid.  But my point is...."  She drew a ragged breath.  "My point is, I saw how loss can devastate a person, and I don't want that to ever happen to me."  Her shoulders began to shake, and this time when he reached for her she didn't pull away. 

 "I understand," he soothed, holding her against him.  "I wish I'd understood sooner, but I understand now.  If you want to keep things casual, I won't complain anymore, I promise."

 "But that isn't what I want!"  She stood up suddenly, wrenching herself from his arms.  "I want to love you, Atharil, to get beyond all of this.  But now you've betrayed me, and I can't."

 "I betrayed you?"  He got to his feet, too, struggling to keep his voice low.  Feyndir and Ryneth were seated some distance away, engrossed in their own conversation, and he hoped they couldn't hear the exchange.  "What exactly was there to betray, Freylen?  You said yourself we weren't serious!"

 "If you really believed that, then why keep your little flat-ear a secret?  Why pretend you were hunting when you visited her?"  She leaned in dangerously, eyebrows furrowed.  "Why not tell me about her when I asked if you fancied someone else?"

 Atharil opened his mouth, then shut it again.  She was right; he had been disloyal to...whatever it was they had shared.  His own attempts to cover his tracks were proof of it.

 "Ir abelas."  The words felt inadequate, and sounded hollow.  Nonetheless, Freylen softened slightly.

 "I cannot be with you anymore, Atharil."  She spoke quietly, her tone not unkind.  "I cannot trust you."

 Atharil merely nodded, unable to disagree.  He watched Freylen walk off, then sank back onto the log and put his head in his hands.  When he looked up again, Feyndir was beckoning him over.

 

 "Ryneth must return to camp with me."  The scout wasted no breath on pleasantries, nor did he meet Atharil's gaze.  "Tell her."

 Atharil lowered himself to one knee and looked at Ryneth.  Her arms were crossed and her jaw set.  Clearly, he and Freylen weren't the only ones who'd been arguing.  He sighed.  "Feyndir is right," he agreed reluctantly.  "I've put you in enough danger, lethallan.  You should go home."

 She rolled her eyes.  "You didn't put me in danger; Feyndir did.  He caused all of this, and now he won't agree to the Keeper's terms to end it."  She shot her husband a black look.  "And I won't go anywhere with him until he does."

 Atharil didn't know what to say.  "You need to do what's best for your child," he managed finally, "regardless of what happens between Feyndir and I."

 "What are Tirsas's terms, anyway?"  Freylen came up behind them, still glassy-eyed but speaking lightly.  She glanced at Atharil and looked away just as quickly.

 Ryneth told them.  Feyndir studied his bare feet while she talked, and Atharil couldn't decide whether the crimson in his cheeks was due to embarrassment or fury.  Probably both.  When she was finished, an awkward silence fell over the group.  Freylen broke it.

 "You should do it," she told her brother evenly.  "The clan needs another mage in order to survive."

 Atharil stared, stunned at her hypocrisy.  "Really?  I didn't imagine you'd be in favor of a man cheating on his wife."

 "That's not fair," Ryneth said, jumping in before anyone else could answer.  "I've given Feyndir permission already.  As Freylen said, the clan needs this."  She put her hand in Atharil's, and he saw Feyndir glower at the gesture.  "And if agreeing to this can help you, too-"

 He pulled away, horrified.  "If... _this_ is to be the price of my return to the clan, then I would rather remain exiled."

 Feyndir rolled his eyes.  "You won't remain in exile, anyway.  Tirsas is bluffing; all we have to do is be more patient with the situation than he is."

 "Well, that's easy for you to say, isn't it?  You're not the one cast out into the cold."  Freylen stepped over the log and sat down beside Ryneth.  She was so close Atharil could have touched her, but he dared not.  "But all Atharil has to do is give your name, and you will be."

 The hunter risked a look at his old friend, and their eyes met.  "I won't do that, Feyndir.  You have my word."

 Feyndir nodded curtly.  "Ma serannas," he said, his voice gruff.  He clasped his hands in front of him and shifted on his seat.  "Freylen, perhaps you could take Ryneth's place for a few-"

 "No."  The tone of her voice left no room for argument.  She looked around at the three of them and shook her head.  "No one is going to take Ryneth's place.  We're all going back to camp together, and Feyndir will tell the Keeper he'll do this 'favor' for Clan Lutharra.  It's the only logical path forward."

 A silence followed, everyone looking at one another and waiting for someone to object.  Finally, Ryneth stood up.  Atharil could see the slight rise of her abdomen by the firelight, and somehow the sight made what they'd all just tacitly agreed to that much worse. 

 "Well, that's settled, then."  She spoke with a false brightness, and smiled, and Atharil felt sick to his stomach.  "Ara seranna-ma, but it's been a long day, and I'm going to turn in."  She stepped carefully over the log and made her way over to her bedroll, where she lay down with her back to the group.

 "I'll take first watch," Feyndir said, looking as ill as Atharil felt.  He ran a hand through his dark hair and exhaled, his shoulders curling inward in defeat.  Freylen gave him a sympathetic pat on the back and yawned, then headed for her own bed.  After a moment, Atharil got up and sat down cautiously beside him.

 "Ir abelas."  He seemed to be saying that a lot today, and it sounded just as insufficient now as it had earlier.

 Feyndir shook his head slowly.  "There's plenty of blame to go around, Atharil, but I think we all know most of it is mine."  He looked over at Ryneth.  "None of it is hers, that much is certain."

 "I could leave," Atharil offered.  "I could slip away in the night, and then she'd have no choice but to return with you."

 Feyndir gave a mirthless laugh.  "Or, more likely, she'd have us all scouring the Graves until we found you again.  You know how tenacious she is."  He sighed.  "In truth, this plan of Tirsas's is not new.  He approached Ryneth and I about it before...everything, and she supported it even then.  The only difference is that now the two of them have leverage."

 There was something else Atharil wanted to say before he retired, though it was difficult to find the words.  "I want you to know," he began, "I had no idea Freylen felt so deeply about me.  I wanted it to be more, but I thought it was just a fling to her.  I never meant to-"

 "Please don't."  Feyndir held up a hand.  "That's really more than I want to know about my baby sister.  Besides, I'm hardly in a position to judge you anymore - what I'm about to do to Ryneth is far worse."


	22. Chapter 22

 The hike back to Clan Lutharra's encampment took most of the morning.  Feyndir and Ryneth led the way, walking close together and speaking to one another in hushed tones, leaving Atharil and Freylen to follow in awkward silence. 

 "I'm curious," he said finally, unable to keep his thoughts to himself any longer.  "When you advised Feyndir to sleep with someone else, were you speaking as his sister or as Tirsas's First?"

 Freylen groaned.  "Why does it have to be one or the other?  Besides, 'sleep with' is probably a bit of a stretch.  I imagine it will be nothing more than a quick, rough tumble in the dark.  Completely meaningless, and over as quickly as it's begun."

 Atharil shook his head.  "I could describe some of our couplings similarly, but none of them were meaningless to me."

 She shot him a warning look.  "Yet not meaningful enough to keep you from pursuing someone else, apparently."

 He sighed.  "I'm only saying, this isn't going to be as easy for either of them as you seem to think."  He gazed ahead, where Ryneth was walking with her fingers entwined in Feyndir's.  "It's going to break their hearts, I'm afraid."

 Freylen was quiet for a moment.  "Are you worried for Feyndir, or Ryneth?"

 "Why does it have to be one or the other?" he answered, turning her own words back on her.  "I care about both of them."

 It was Freylen's turn to sigh.  "I do, too, but I also care about the clan.  And I care about you, despite everything.  A Dalish in exile is vulnerable, and you're one of our best hunters.  We can't afford to lose you."

 "Oh, well, thank the Creators I'm useful, then."

 

 Atharil waited alone outside the encampment while the others went to speak with the Keeper.  They weren't gone long, but when they returned Ryneth looked even paler than usual.

 "I'm leaving in the morning," Feyndir reported, his voice a growl.  "Tirsas says you have to remain outside camp until... until I return."

 Freylen managed a thin smile.  "You can stay here, though.  Nearby, and under the protection of the scouts.  You'll be safe, at least, and well-fed.  I'll bring you dinner later."

 Feyndir grunted at that, despite his earlier declaration that he could no longer judge Atharil's indiscretions.

 "Ma serannas, lethallan."  It was subtle, but he knew they all heard and noted it.  _Lethallan_.  There was no longer anything romantic between he and Freylen; they were friends and clansmen only, no matter what lingering feelings might remain.

 His choice of words seemed to reassure Feyndir somewhat.  "Is there anything else you need?" he offered, softening his tone.

 Nothing that anyone can bring me, Atharil thought.  "No, thank you.  I am content enough, at the moment, just to be out of giant country." 

 Ryneth gave a tired chuckle.  "Me, too," she said, and when he met her eyes he saw that they were ringed in red.  She'd been crying, then.  He balled his hands at his sides to keep from reaching out to her, to stop himself from holding her as he had when they were trapped together in the cave.  It wasn't his place to comfort her now; it was Feyndir's.  Feyndir, who was leaving in the morning to bed and impregnate another woman.  For the supposed good of them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the itty-bitty chapter. Next one will be longer.


	23. Chapter 23

 "Ask me not to go."  Feyndir stood at the edge of camp, a heavy morning mist swirling about the hem of his traveling cloak.

 Ryneth reached up to touch his cheek, her fingers tracing the branching lines of his vallaslin.  "I cannot, vhenan." 

 He put his hand over hers, pressing it to his face.  "Then please know I don't do this for Clan Lutharra, but only because you bid it.  I would rather our entire clan be swallowed up by a rift than that I should be unfaithful."

 "I don't think that's how rifts work."  She smiled, and a tear escaped her eye and ran down her cheek.  Feyndir brushed it away with a finger.

 "Rabbit...."

 "I know."  She took her hand away and shoved him lightly.  "Hurry, now, so you can return to me all the sooner."

 He caught her wrists, instead, and pulled her close.

 "Ar lath ma."  He kissed her with a desperation that reminded Ryneth of the first time, when the cautious Dalish scout had finally succumbed to his feelings for a trespassing shemlen.  "I am always yours, my love."

 She touched her forehead to his, eyes closed.  "Dareth shirel, Feyndir."

***

 

 "Ryneth?" 

 It was Freylen's voice.  She sat up, wiping her eyes hurriedly on her sleeve.  Living with a clan was great until you needed some privacy to cry yourself into a stupor.  "Come in."

  The tent flap opened, and Freylen ducked inside.  She was carrying a bowl covered by a thin white cloth.

 "Atharil's midday meal," she explained, holding it out.  "When I brought him breakfast, he asked me to send you next time."

 "Oh...okay."  Ryneth took the bowl.  It smelled of wild mushrooms and bronto meat, and her stomach rumbled.

 "On second thought, do you want that one?  I can fetch another for our outcast friend."

 Ryneth shook her head.  "No, thank you.  I'm not really hungry."

 Freylen crossed her thin arms.  "You can't starve yourself the whole time he's gone, sister.  It might... well, it might take a while."  She blushed.  "Sorry, that wasn't helpful at all."

 Ryneth stood up, suddenly in a hurry to be anywhere else.  "Right.  On that cheery thought, I'll take this to Atharil."

   
 He was waiting for her where they'd left him the previous day, sitting cross-legged on his bedroll. 

 "How are you?" he asked before she'd even reached him, his forehead wrinkled with concern.

 She handed him the bowl and sat down, watching as he lifted the cloth and sniffed at the contents.  "Alright, I guess."

 "Ma harel, lethallan."  He pulled a knife from his pack, wiped it on his tunic, and skewered a piece of meat.

 "Terrible, then.  Better?"

 Atharil held out the knife.  "Eat this."

 "I'm not hungry."

 "Eat it, anyway."

 Ryneth gave him a black look.  "Is this why you asked for me?"

 He chuckled.  "Only partially.  Humor me first, and then I'll show you the other reason."

 She sighed and took the knife from him, nibbling obediently at one end of the bronto steak.  At first, it didn't feel as though there was room in her knotted stomach for food.  Once she'd had a few bites, however, she was ravenous.

 Atharil watched her for a minute, then passed her the bowl.

 "What about you?" she asked around a mouthful.

 "I had breakfast.  You didn't."

 "How do you know that?"  She dispensed with the knife and started plucking mushrooms out of the bowl with her fingers, wincing at the heat.

 "Freylen told me.  She said you holed up in your tent right after Feyndir left."  He shrugged.  "I asked her to send you to me if you were still there at midday."

 Ryneth scowled.  "I'm not a child that needs minding, Atharil."

 "No, you're not."  He frowned.  "But you're upset, and people don't always look after themselves properly when they're upset.  It's not a weakness to accept help."

 "I...you're right."  She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, only slightly self-conscious at the act.  There used to be napkins, in another life.  "Thank you."

 He smiled and stood up.  "Ma nuvenin.  Ready to see the other reason I brought you here?"

***

 

 "Hold.  Who are you, brother?"

 In typical Dalish fashion, he felt the dagger at his throat before he heard the scout's words.  "Feyndir, of Clan Lutharra.  I've come to speak with your Keeper."

 "Concerning?"

 Feyndir was silent a moment, trying to think of a tactful way to put it.  "My clan and yours have been discussing an... exchange."  He could feel his ears burning.  "Creators, just show me to your encampment.  I am of the People."

 The scout hesitated.  "We were expecting a mage, not an archer."

 "I _am_ a mage."  He'd never declared it aloud before; it felt like a lie.

 "You don't even have a staff."

 Feyndir closed his eyes, struggling to contain his annoyance.  "You're right.  But I am still a mage, I promise you."

 Slowly, the blade was withdrawn.  "If you say so.  This way."

  
 Clan Orannan was small, and some of the looks Feyndir caught as the scout escorted him through camp were less than friendly.  Wariness he could understand, but there was real animosity on a few faces, and it troubled him.  He was relieved when they finally reached the Keeper's tent and ducked inside.

 "This is Feyndir, Keeper.  A mage from Clan Lutharra."  The scout stepped aside, but remained close at hand.

 "Andaran atish'an.  I am Keeper Liranel."  The Keeper was bright-eyed and dark-skinned, and he looked Feyndir up and down as though he were inspecting merchandise.  "You're a handsome enough fellow; Isora will be pleased on that account, at least.  Sit down."

 "Isora is your First, hahren?"  Feyndir knelt, and the Keeper continued to stare at him. 

 "Why do you carry a bow?" he asked, ignoring the question.

 "I practice healing magic, mostly.  A staff wouldn't be of much use."   

 "Hmmph."  The Keeper beckoned, and the scout drew nearer.  "Hold out your hand," he instructed, taking a small knife from his robes.  As Feyndir watched, Liranel drew the blade slowly across the elf's palm, leaving a trail of bright red blood in its wake.  The scout didn't flinch, but Feyndir saw tears spring to his eyes.

 The Keeper motioned at the wound.  "Heal him."

 "I... alright."  Feyndir closed his eyes.  It was hard enough drawing energy from the Fade when he wasn't being tested.  Now, knowing that he was being watched, judged.... For a moment, he considered failing on purpose.  No magic, no deal.  He could return home to Ryneth, they could-

 "He's no mage," the scout scoffed.  "I knew it."

 Feyndir felt warmth flowing into his hands then, starting in his palms and radiating outward until it reached his fingertips.  He relaxed, letting the heat grow until it was almost painful, and when he opened his eyes again his hands were glowing a familiar shade of orange.  He sandwiched the scout's wounded hand between them and focused.

 "There," he said after a few moments, drawing away as he felt the magic diminishing.

 The Keeper leaned in, scrutinizing his work.  "I can see now why you were encouraged to take up archery."  He waved his own hand at the cut, neatly finishing what Feyndir had begun.

 "I am sorry to disappoint you, hahren."  Feyndir didn't know whether he was more offended or amused.  Before today, the weakness of his connection to the Fade had never been an issue.  He was a scout; whatever small amount magic he wielded was merely a helpful bonus.

 "It matters little."  Liranel waved the scout away, leaving the two of them alone in the tent.  "You are a mage, as you claim, even if you aren't a very powerful one.  You'll do for my Isora."  
   
 My Isora.  "Isora is your...."

 "Daughter, yes.  And also my First."  He seemed to sit a bit straighter, pride evident in his posture.

 Feyndir had never heard of a Keeper selecting his own child as First, but he remembered Tirsas saying all the mages in Clan Orannan were closely related.  It was the reason they wanted his services, after all.  Still, the idea of Liranel offering his own daughter to a stranger was revolting.  Feyndir found himself wondering what Isora herself had to say about the arrangement.  Tirsas had claimed she was willing, but was she?

 "And where is Isora now?  I expected she would be here."

 Keeper Liranel chuckled, an ugly sound.  " Patience, da'len.  She is out gathering spindleweed along the river.  We didn't know for certain whether your clan was sending anyone; the last time I inquired, Tirsas told me he was still working on it."  He raised one eyebrow in an unspoken question.

 Feyndir frowned.  "Circumstances changed, and I became...available."

 The chuckle turned into a laugh.  "A Keeper always gets what he wants in the end, never doubt that!"  He whistled, and an unfamiliar elf appeared at the tent's opening.  "Tacen, take Feyndir to get something to eat.  Make sure the boy's belly is full, so he can fill Isora's later."


	24. Chapter 24

 "Atharil!  When did you do all this?" 

 The clearing had been transformed into a training course, with logs of varying thicknesses laid out horizontally in a zigzag pattern, resting on stumps a few inches off the ground.  Some of the logs looked sturdy, covered in rough, deeply-grooved bark, while others were little more than saplings, ready to bend and sway underfoot.  There were small gaps to be jumped, and gentle inclines, and even a red flag to be claimed at the far end of the run.

 The hunter smiled, his pale face momentarily as red as the scar that ran down its side.  "I don't spend all my time chasing Orlesian maids, you know."

 Ryneth touched the nearest log.  "I can finally learn to walk the canopy as you and Feyndir do."  She felt tears welling in her eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.  "I don't know what to say."

 Atharil looked alarmed.  "Please don't cry.  I wanted to cheer you up."

 She shook her head, unable to speak, then turned and threw her arms around him.  "They're happy tears this time," she sobbed into his braided blonde hair.  "Ir abelas.  I cry at everything these days."

 He patted her awkwardly on the back.  "There is nothing for which you need apologize, Ryneth." 

 He tightened his embrace then, protective, and she found herself clinging to him like a raft in a storm.  Out there was an empty tent, an empty bed, and the constant, sickening ache of knowing that Feyndir was with someone else.  Here there was comfort, consolation, the warmth of a fast-beating heart in a familiar chest.  Someone who cared about her.

 "Do you want to try it out?"  Atharil's voice was strained, and when Ryneth looked up at him his light eyes shifted to the side.

 She released him shyly, taking a step backward.  "Yes, of course."  She could feel the flush in her cheeks, and coughed.  "Help me up?"

 Atharil took her hand as she stepped onto the first beam, holding her steady.  "Don't walk yet," he cautioned.  "Feel the tree beneath you, first."

 "Of course I feel it."  Ryneth could no longer even recall the last time she'd worn her boots, though she knew they were still locked safely away in a chest back at camp.  The only part of her feet not in direct contact with the log were the small areas where her wrappings looped under her arches.

 "No.  Close your eyes."  She glanced at him, surprised at his reproachful tone, and shut them.  "What do you feel?"

 'Nervous' was the first thought that sprang to mind, but she squelched it.  She could still feel his hand holding hers.  He wouldn't let her fall.  "Bark?  It's cool and..." She stretched her toes, feeling them curl around the ridges and grooves.  "It's an old tree.  But it's sturdy; at least this part is.  It's solid, not hollow.  Healthy."  


 "Better."  His tone softened slightly.  "How much does it sway when the wind blows?  If you jumped on it, would it break or bend?  Will it creak and warn your enemies, startle your prey?  These are all questions you can learn to answer, da'len."

 Ryneth opened her eyes and looked at him.  "Da'len?  When did I become 'da'len'?"

 A smile tugged at the corner of Atharil's mouth.  "When you accepted my instruction.  You do want me to teach you, don't you?"

 "Well, yes."  She felt flustered, but wasn't sure why.  "I just didn't realize it involved this degree of formality."

 Atharil shrugged.  "It does not seem overly formal to me.  Walk."

 Ryneth took a few shaky steps forward, reaching the end of the first log and stepping onto a thinner, more pliant section.  Immediately, she felt it bob under her weight.

 "Relax your legs and back.  Don't fight the movement in the branch; use it."

 She took another step and wobbled, clutching onto his hand to steady herself.  "I don't think I can do this, Atharil."

 "You can.  You are."

 Ryneth tried again, placing her foot as gently as she could before shifting her weight forward.  The young tree beneath her lurched.  She flailed with her free arm, Atharil's strong grip the only thing preventing her from falling off the far side of the log.

 "This is hopeless!  I'm hopeless.  Let me down."  She could hear the whine in her voice, and hated it.

 Atharil dropped her hand and hopped up behind her, instead.  The tree dipped lightly, but less than it had at her footsteps.  Her clumsy, heavy footsteps. 

 "Keep going, da'len.  I have you."  She felt his hands on her hips, and reddened.  She was wider now, every part of her thickening as her pregnancy advanced.  And she was already so large compared to elven women, so _sturdy_. 

 "What's wrong?"  His voice in her ear, full of concern.  Her vision blurred again as fresh tears sprang to her eyes.

 "I'm not graceful enough for this.  I'm too large, too pregnant.  Too shemlen."

 Atharil was quiet for a moment.  "My ears do nothing to improve my balance."

 "It's not just your ears, Atharil, and you know it.  Your people are lithe, and quick, and... and elegant.  And I'm not."  She took a shaky breath.  "But whoever _she_ is, she'll be all those things.  Was I foolish to send Feyndir to her?"

 Atharil turned her gently to face him, steadying both her movements and the tree's.  She didn't want to look at him.

 "You were brave," he said, bringing her gaze up with a finger under her chin, "as you always are.  And selfless, as you always are."  He frowned, a conflict playing out behind his pale eyes.  "And you're beautiful, as you always are."

 "Atharil...."  She didn't know what to say next, but it didn't matter.  He leaned in, and so did she.     


  



	25. Chapter 25

 Their kiss was broken by a scream.  And then another, followed by the chaotic sounds of people yelling and running.

 "What the -"  Atharil stepped off the log, lifting Ryneth down after him.  "Something's happening in camp."  He threw his quiver over his shoulder and picked up his bow.  "Stay here."

 Ryneth snorted, hurrying to equip her own weapon as she followed.  "Are we under attack?  How did they get past the scouts?" 

 He nocked an arrow, crouching as he moved toward the commotion.  "Fenedhis, woman.  If you won't stay put, at least stay low."

 Ryneth copied his stance.  Once again she felt ungainly, her arms brushing against her swelling breasts.  "It's awkward."

 The yelling got louder as they approached, and now she could pick up words and phrases.

 "Get back!  Give her space!"  
 "Stay behind the aravel!"

 She looked at Atharil.  "All of this is about one person?"

 He frowned.  "I don't think it's an attack."

 Confused, she followed him to the edge of the encampment.  Technically, he wasn't supposed to go any further, but it hardly seemed to matter at the moment.  They crept together past empty tents and abandoned campfires, finally joining a group of frightened onlookers all staring at the same thing: a child.

 The redheaded little girl was lying facedown in the dirt, so still that at first Ryneth thought she was dead.  She clamped a hand over her mouth.

 "She's blacked out, the poor thing," a woman in front of them commented. 

 The man beside her grunted.  "At least she's stopped discharging lightning bolts."  The scent of ozone still hung in the air, and now Ryneth noticed the scorch marks and small fires left in their wake.  The side of a tent was slowly being consumed by one such fire, but no one dared step forward to put it out.

 The girl began to stir again just as Tirsas and Freylen arrived, both panting.  Freylen cast a barrier over the three of them as the Keeper approached the girl, speaking in gentle tones words that Ryneth couldn't quite make out.

 "...stay calm...alright...focus on..." 

 The child sat up and turned to him, sparks leaping from her fingertips.  Ryneth grabbed Atharil's arm.

 "That's Arinna!  Feyndir and I brought her out of the alienage in Denerim!"

 Atharil nodded, his face gone even paler than usual.  "And she's a mage, lethallan.  We have our Second."  He backed away from the crowd, already whistling for a halla.  "I have to stop Feyndir!"


	26. Chapter 26

 Feyndir stirred his stew, keeping his head down.  Eating his midday meal amongst a clan full of strangers who'd rather glare at him than speak had been bad enough; still being present when the evening meal came around was close to torture.  Not that he was anxious for what would come later, but at least _that _would take place away from unfriendly eyes.  He hoped.__

____

____

 "You must be Feyndir, the one sent by Fen'Harel himself to defile our First."  The raven-haired young woman spoke with such a casual air that he guessed she must be joking, though the words still stung.  He watched out of the corner of his eyes as she sat down on a stump beside him, stretching her long legs toward the fire and wriggling her toes.

____

____

 "Is that why everyone looks as if someone pissed in their milk?"

____

____

 She gave a short laugh, throwing her head back.  "No one actually believed the Keeper would find someone willing to do the deed, but here you are.  What did he promise you?"

____

____

 He scowled, hearing the barb hidden in her words more clearly this time.  "A mage for my clan.  We have no Second." 

____

____

 "Ah.  Anything for the clan, eh?  That's very noble of you."  Feyndir said nothing, so she continued.  "What does your wife think of your 'sacrifice'?  Assuming she knows, of course."

____

____

 Feyndir studied the ring on his finger.  It had been Sean's, passed down to his future son-in-law on the eve of his wedding.  "An elf-blooded woman gave this to me," he'd said.  "Perhaps it's fitting that an elf wear it next.  May you and Ryneth be as happy together as her mother and I were." 

____

____

 "She knows," he answered simply.

____

____

 "And?"

____

____

 He looked at the girl sharply.  "That is between us.  Why are you pestering me?"

____

____

 She held up a hand.  "Ir abelas, brother.  I only hope you aren't here against her wishes."

____

____

 "I am here against _my _wishes."  He sighed.  "I did something foolish, and this is the price of setting it right."__

_____ _

_____ _

 She offered him a lopsided smiled.  "Laying with the Keeper's daughter is a punishment for you, then?"

_____ _

_____ _

 "Of sorts, yes.  Does that amuse you?"

_____ _

_____ _

 "I'm not sure.  Misery loves company, I suppose."  She stood up, offering him a hand.  "Come with me, Feyndir."

_____ _

_____ _

  
 She had an aravel to herself, and it was large enough inside to stand comfortably. Feyndir watched through narrowed eyes as she reached across to pull the door closed behind him.

_____ _

_____ _

 "You're Isora, aren't you?" he asked as soon as they were alone.

_____ _

_____ _

 "I am."  Without ceremony, she began unbuckling her armor, and despite her calm facade Feyndir noted the tremble in her hands.  "And I have to admit, knowing you're just as unhappy about this situation as I am helps considerably."

_____ _

____

 He frowned.  "Why go along with it, then?  For your clan?"  
   
 Isora huffed, dropping her pauldron to the floor.  "I love the People, but not that much.  No, I'm doing this for Gethen.  And myself."

_____ _

_____ _

 She unbuckled her belt, and it occurred to Feyndir that he probably should do something besides stare at her as she disrobed.  "Who's Gethen?" he asked, removing his bow and unfastening the harness that held his quiver in place.  He couldn't decide whether to move slowly or quickly, to delay or rush through what must happen next.

_____ _

_____ _

 "He's our halla keeper.  He gave me a promise ring, but my father doesn't approve because he's not a mage."  She pulled her tunic over her head, and Feyndir felt the first stirrings of desire awaken within him.  He'd nearly forgotten what an elven woman's body looked like, all long lines and subtle curves.  He was ashamed at how easily Isora excited him.

_____ _

_____ _

 She continued, oblivious to his internal conflicts.  "If I do this, he's promised to marry us after the baby comes."

_____ _

_____ _

 The baby.  Their baby, that Isora would raise on her own.  The thought of it made his head ache, as well as his heart.  He would be a father twice over within the space of a few months, but only one of his children would ever know his face.  And one of them would be an elf, while the other appeared shemlen.  It was difficult to imagine.  "Our child mightn't be a mage, you know.  There's no guarantee."  He began loosening his belt, trying not to look at her and failing.

_____ _

_____ _

 Isora bent to unwind her foot wraps then, and Feyndir momentarily lost his breath.  "It doesn't matter; a deal's a deal.  I give him a grandchild with two mage parents, and he stops trying to get me to give up Gethen."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Why not just leave?  Both of you?"  It was becoming a struggle to concentrate on forming words.  Isora stepped closer and helped him off with his tunic, and Feyndir could feel his heart hammering in his chest.  He curled his hands at his sides, uncertain whether he should touch her or not.

_____ _

_____ _

 "I'm still a First."  Her voice grew softer, husky.  "I won't just abandon my clan."

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir shook his head, trying to clear it.  Trying to buy time.  "Why are you First, anyway?  Shouldn't Liranel have traded you to another clan when you came into your magic?"

_____ _

____

 "Not all fathers find it so easy to walk away, Feyndir."  He ignored the jab.  "My brother and I -"  
   
 "Your _brother _?  He is also a mage?"__

_____ _

_____ _

 She shrugged, suddenly defensive.  "He's our Second.  It bothers some in the clan, but my father didn't believe we should be sent away just because we have magic."

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir narrowed his eyes.  "Your father is selfish.  Is the mage he promised Clan Lutharra also your sibling?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Isora flushed.  "He is not.  He's our cousin."

_____ _

____

 He snorted.  "Liranel isn't trying to bring in outside blood; he's trying to establish a dynasty of Keepers."  
   
 "And why should you care if he is?"  Isora glared at him, defiant.  "Your clan will get its Second, as promised.  Isn't that what matters to you?"  She touched his arm, and her tone softened.  "And I will get to be with Gethen.  Please, Feyndir... for both our sakes."

_____ _

_____ _

 He looked down into her eyes, pools of blue that mirrored his own, beseeching him.  Asking him to forget himself, to put aside his vows for only a little while.  To do what they both needed him to do.  His hand strayed to her waist, and she sighed.

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir's caresses were tentative at first, uncertain, but as Isora lifted onto her toes to brush her lips against his, he grew bolder.  His fingers dug into her soft skin, and he turned her body toward the soft hides that covered the aravel's bed.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Lie down, then."  His voice was a strangled groan, equal parts longing and despair.  "Let's get this over with."


	27. Chapter 27

 Atharil could feel the halla slowing, stumbling, weakening beneath him.  Leaning in close to one of its delicate ears, he urged it on in both elven and the common tongue, asking it to give just a little more.  It heeded his request, and for a while longer the forest swept by in a blur.

 The next time it faltered, however, there was no coaxing it forward.  The beast's legs gave out beneath it, sending the elf rolling across the mossy ground.  A stone outcropping ended his tumble; the back of his head struck it with enough force to make the Graves swim before his eyes.  He lay dazed for a moment, then shook his head and struggled to his feet.  He staggered back to the collapsed deer.  Kneeling  beside it, he stroked its long neck as it lay gasping on the forest floor.  He put a long ear to its side and listened, his brow furrowed.

 "Ir abelas," he whispered, quietly unsheathing his dagger.  "Falon'Din enasal enaste."  He slit the creature's throat in one clean movement, careful to avoid the rush of hot blood that spilled out in the blade's wake.  The halla's eyes rolled back, and he closed them gently before getting to his feet.  It shouldn't be much farther, now.

  
 Running toward a Dalish encampment was never a wise idea, even for one of the People.  Atharil forced himself to walk, though worry hastened his every step.  Worry, and guilt.  Some small part of him whispered that he should slow down, stop even.  Let things play out, allow Feyndir time to harm his relationship with Ryneth in a way that might be irrevocable....  He hated himself for even thinking it.

 The hunter could see signs he was getting close - a footprint here, a broken branch there - long before the scout stopped him.

 "I'm from Clan Lutharra," Atharil explained, trying to ignore the knife at his back.  "I need to see Feyndir right away."

 "Who's Feyndir?"  The scout pressed the tip of his blade harder and Atharil scowled, refusing to shrink from it.

 "He's my clansman."  He curled his hands into fists.  "He should have arrived earlier today.  It's important that I-"

 "Oh, the mage with the bow."  The scout chuckled.  "He's probably with Isora.  I doubt he wants to be disturbed."

 Atharil fought an urge to sweep the man's feet out from under him.  "I must speak with him now, brother.  It cannot wait."

 The scout sighed.  "Very well.  This way."

  
 When they reached Clan Orannan's encampment, the scout pointed toward one of the larger aravels.  "That's Isora's."  He took a step backward, retreating toward the woods.  "You're on your own from here, lethallin.  I've no intention of finding out what happens when two mages are interrupted."

 Atharil tried to imagine Feyndir hurling a fireball at him, but couldn't.  He wasn't even sure his friend was capable of it, at least not without several minutes of concentration.  The woman he was bedding, on the other hand...well.  With luck, her reaction wouldn't be any worse than some of the shocks and chills Freylen had unleashed on him in the moment.  In any case, it couldn't be avoided.  He just hoped, with almost all his heart, that he wasn't too late.

 He started toward the aravel, but was stopped halfway by a white-haired elf in Keeper's robes.  "Who are you," the man demanded, laying a hand on his arm, "and where do you think you're going?"

 Atharil tipped his head in respect.  "Ara seranna-ma, hahren.  Clan Lutharra no longer requires another mage; I've been sent to retrieve my clansman."  Not exactly true, but he was certain Tirsas would have sent someone when he got the chance.

 The Keeper scowled.  "You can't.  Feyndir is already with my daughter."

 "Your daughter is your First?"  Atharil couldn't hide his disapproval, and didn't really try.  "Why didn't you trade her to another clan at the last Arlathvhen?"

 "That's none of your business, hunter.  Your Keeper and I had a deal-"

 Atharil yanked his arm free of the older man's grasp and continued walking at a faster pace.  Clan Orannan's Keeper followed after him, tugging at his tunic and making subtle threats, but Atharil elbowed him away.  A few of the Dalish in camp looked in their direction, but didn't interfere.

 "Feyndir!"  More heads turned at his shout, and still more when he began pounding on the aravel's small, rounded door.  "Feyndir, open up!"

 There was movement within, the sound of hurried shuffling before the door swung open.  Feyndir was unclothed above the waist, the thin scar running along his ribs a visible reminder of their recent brawl.  Atharil felt his own shoulder throb in sympathy.

 "Atharil?  What are you doing here?"  The scout peered out sheepishly at the small crowd of Dalish gathering to see what all the excitement was about.

 "The child Arinna is a mage, lethallin.  She's just come into her magic - I came as fast as I could."  He hesitated.  "You haven't...."

 "No."  Feyndir sank to his haunches in the aravel's doorway, a look of shocked relief on his face.  "No, you got here just in time, my friend.  Thank the Creators."

******

 Halfway home, they were forced to stop for the night.  Feyndir unpacked the food Isora had sent with them while Atharil stoked the fire, neither of them saying much.  The hunter's thoughts kept returning to his interrupted kiss with Ryneth, but every time he glanced at Feyndir he felt sick and tried to shut out the memory.

 "Here."  Feyndir handed him something wrapped in a thin cloth.  Atharil unfolded it warily.

 "A cake?  Mythal's mercy, where did she get this?"

 The scout shrugged.  "Clan Orannan trades with shemlen regularly.  It's one of her favorite foods, apparently."

 Atharil nibbled a corner and made a face.  "Far too sweet.  Disgusting."  He studied the dessert in his hand.  "This is her favorite, you say?  I take it there were no hard feelings about your sudden departure, then?" 

 Feyndir blushed slightly.  "She understood, though she was kind enough to at least feign disappointment.  I wish her father had been as reasonable."

 Atharil tossed the cake over his shoulder.  "I'll hear from Tirsas for shoving him, no doubt.  Asshole or no, Liranel _is _a Keeper."__

____

____

 "He had it coming."  Feyndir sighed.  "I'm sorry, Atharil.  For everything."

____

____

 He couldn't meet his clansman's gaze.  "It's nothing.  Forget it."

____

____

 "It's not nothing.  I was wrong to fight with you, but you still defended me to the Keeper.  You accepted banishment to protect me, and now you've...."  His voice trailed off, and he coughed before continuing.  "You've saved my marriage, lethallin.  I know Ryneth; she would've never gotten over it, not really.  I'm lucky to have such a friend - if you still consider me one, that is." 

____

____

 Atharil had never felt worse about himself.  "Of course I do."  He hesitated, then forced himself to look up into the scout's sorrowful blue eyes.  "We are brothers, Feyndir, and you can always count on me.  I swear it by the Old Wolf himself."

____

____

 A cold breeze swept through the clearing then, guttering the fire as the two elves stood and embraced one another.  "Be careful, falon," Feyndir whispered in Atharil's pointed ear.  "That one will hold you to your word."


	28. Chapter 28

  
 For Atharil, the weeks that followed consisted largely of avoiding people for various reasons.  Still officially barred from the encampment, he had to avoid the entire clan until Feyndir stood up one night around the central fire and publicly pleaded with the Keeper to forgive his friend's transgression.  Despite the fact that Tirsas thoroughly expected - and in fact, had demanded - the display, the Keeper feigned indecision until Feyndir further took a knee and pledged to defend Atharil from any future aggression from whomever sought to harm him.  Finally satisfied, Tirsas waved a hand and instructed Freylen to retrieve the hunter and bring him back into the fold.

 Freylen.  He had tried not to avoid her at first, but she and Tirsas were almost entirely absorbed with instructing Arinna these days.  The orphaned child from Denerim was already proving to be a powerful mage, and it was taking all of their skill to prevent her endangering herself and others.  When Atharil finally did manage to get the First alone, he offered to assist her in collecting herbs to ease the child's sleep. Freylen gave him a guarded smile, and said she could manage it alone. Shortly afterwards, Feyndir visited Atharil's tent, quietly suggesting that his sister would prefer not to be distracted.  He hadn't spoken with her since.

 Feyndir, too, he had seen very little of.  With Ryneth's pregnancy entering an advanced stage, her partner hovered and fretted over her whenever he was in camp, and together they spent all their free time preparing for their child's arrival.  Occasionally, the pale elf would watch the two of them from a distance, a pang in his gut every time the scout stroked her growing belly, an ache every time she looked up at him with adoration in her eyes. It was easier not to speak with his old friend, knowing that the conversation would likely turn to his approaching fatherhood.

 Atharil had gifted Ryneth the hide of the great bear he'd killed, waiting until she was alone to offer it.  "You can make the da'len clothes from it," he'd suggested.  "Your child will never feel the cold."

 Ryneth had laughed, a nervous sound that told him she hadn't forgotten the moment they'd shared.  "I could outfit the baby until it reaches adulthood with this much material.  Ma serannas, Atharil."  She paused, stroking the heavy fur.  "And, I'm sorry for what happened before.  I shouldn't have-"

 "Stop.  Please."  He placed a hand over hers, risking the contact to prevent her needless apology.  "I took advantage of you, Ryneth.  That is the truth of what happened.  Ir abelas, lethallan."

 "Atharil...don't say that."  He saw the confusion in her eyes, and it filled him with self-loathing.

 "You were vulnerable, feeling insecure, and I overstepped."  He forced a smile.  "You know how I am with beautiful women."

 She laughed again, and this time her relief was obvious.  "Does this mean we can resume our lessons, hahren?"

 "After the baby comes, da'len.  It's too difficult for you to keep your balance right now."

 Sweet, trusting thing that she was, she accepted all of it. That the gift was just a friendly gesture, that he wouldn't teach her because she'd grown too unsteady on her feet, that he'd kissed her only because he found her pretty. Atharil didn't know whether he was relieved or disappointed that she believed him. He knew it was best for both of them that she did; still, it hurt that she could so easily dismiss his affection. Though why shouldn't she? Freylen had dismissed it, then Elodie...why not Ryneth? The longer the list of women for whom he had feelings grew, the more it proved to everyone the shallowness of his sincerity toward any of them. 

   
 And so the hunter kept his word to Feyndir by maintaining a respectful distance from both the women his friend loved most in the world.  He instead filled his days with hunting, eventually bringing in so much meat that the Keeper was forced to remind him of the Vir Adahlen, and the importance of not taking more prey than the forest could replenish.  He then took to wandering the Graves aimlessly, occasionally harrassing Freemen who made the mistake of travelling in too small a group.  Once he even spotted Venatori, but those he gave a wide berth.  The scar that ran down the left side of his face itched painfully at the mere sight of them.

 Eventually, and without really thinking, Atharil found his steps leading him back towards the blue Orlesian mansion.  He circled it, peering down from high branches into the courtyard and gardens below, thinking of the last day he'd spent with Elodie.  The grounds were empty now. Curling, dry leaves gathered and skittered along the walls, and all the windows were shuttered.

 All but one.  Atharil leaned in, gripping the branch above him with one hand.  The heavy wooden panel on one side of the kitchen window had been opened, and not by the wind.  It was latched securely to the wall, and there were fresh tracks in the dirt beneath.  Someone was within.

 The hunter felt his heart jump into his throat, and reminded himself to be cautious.  There could be bandits in the house, or deserters.  Certainly it wasn't the shemlen nobility; they would have made their presence known in a much grander fashion.  But the prints were so small, and the feet that made them had been unshod....

 Atharil stepped off the branch and landed lightly on top of the mansion's outer wall, crouching there like a cat, undecided.  Once he dropped into the sideyard, escape would be difficult, and while it didn't look as if a large force was occupying the building, he couldn't be certain.

 He waited, conflicted, until the kitchen door unexpectedly opened.  A slim shape emerged, head down, and instinctively he nocked an arrow to his bow.  The figure glimpsed the movement, looked up, and screamed.

 "Mythal's mercy!"  He slid off the wall.  "Elodie, I'm sorry!  I didn't mean to startle you."

 She was holding her chest, gasping, and when he drew closer she shied away.  "Atharil," she managed.  "I wondered if I'd see you again." 

 He reached out, thinking to touch her shoulder, but again she pulled back.  He frowned, lowering his hand.  "Are you alone?"

 She glanced back at the open door.  "I...yes.  For now."

 Something was wrong.  Atharil felt a knot growing in his stomach as he watched her consider fleeing back into the house.  If she did, he decided, he wouldn't try to stop her.  Perhaps she regretted their time together, or perhaps she was angry that he hadn't shown up the following morning.  Neither possibility, however, explained the fear that was so strong he could smell it on her.

 "Do you want me to go?" 

 "What?"  She looked embarrassed.  "No, no it's okay.  Come in." 

 He followed her into the familiar kitchen, taking a deep breath as he felt the stone walls close around him once more.  She offered him tea, and he watched as she filled their cups with hands that still shook. 

 "Are you alright, Elodie?"  He spoke quietly, not moving.

 She eased into a chair, both hands around her drink.  "Where were you that morning?"

 He sighed.  "I was unwell.  Injured in a... an accident.  I did come, but it was too late."

 She smiled faintly.  "It doesn't really matter.  I was going to tell you I'd decided to stay, anyway.  I just thought maybe you didn't show because your offer wasn't sincere."

 Atharil joined her at the table, leaving an empty chair between them.  "I meant it then, and I mean it now.  You can still come away with me, Elodie.  My clan would welcome you."

 She shook her head, her expression darkening.  "I can't.  Not now."

 They were both quiet for a moment, the only sound the crackle of a low fire in the hearth.

 "Do you want to tell me why you're here?"

 She shivered despite the room's warmth.  "His Lordship sent me to wait.  It's not uncommon, when the family has another residence.  After... after, I can return to Val Royeaux.  Everything will be fine." 

 Atharil didn't understand, but he sensed she was telling him something awful.  "After what?  What are you waiting for?"

 "The baby."  Her words were little more than a whisper; he nearly missed them.  "During Colette's party... his Lordship's son is a chevalier, you see...."

 "Oh, no."  He stood up, saw her flinch, sat back down again.  "Oh, Elodie, lethallan."  He struggled with his hands, wanting to hold her but understanding with sickening clarity why she shrank from his touch.  He sank his fingernails into his thighs under the table.  "I am so sorry."

 She looked away, into the flames.  "It's embarrassing for the family, but at least I didn't lose my place.  I could have been dismissed from service."

 Atharil opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again.  He was so angry he could hardly think straight, and the last thing he wanted to do was upset her further by expressing his outrage.  "They expect you to give birth by yourself?" he finally managed, keeping his voice as level as possible.

 "No, of course not.  They'll send Marienne when the time draws nearer - she's some experience as a midwife.  When the baby comes, we'll take it to a Chantry and say we found it abandoned.  No one ever need know it's elf-blooded."  She placed a hand over her still-flat stomach, already protective of the child that had been forced upon her.

 It wasn't often that Atharil felt directly the oppression of his people, but he recognized the feeling of powerlessness that washed over him listening to Elodie speak.  For all his skill as a hunter, there was nothing he could do to set this indignity right, no force he could call on to avenge her.  Even the Creators were silent since the Great Betrayal.

 If only he'd seen her that morning.  He might have changed her mind, convinced her to abandon her life of servitude.  She had certainly seemed close to it the night before, after they'd-

 "Elodie."  He sat bolt upright in his seat and turned to her.  She returned his gaze calmly, and he saw in her eyes that she already knew what he was just realizing.  "The shemlen party was only a day after you and I were together.  You might not be carrying a chevalier's child after all - it may be mine."


	29. Chapter 29

"I can't believe you let him give her that." Freylen prodded the bear pelt with one toe.

"I wasn't here when he brought it." Feyndir sat cross-legged on the bed he shared with Ryneth, mending his cloak. The deep green wool was threadbare in spots, and the Dalish didn't keep sheep. Eventually, the clan would need to trade for more cloth. Or raid. He'd never particularly enjoyed the latter, and now he liked the idea even less. "But I wouldn't have asked Ryneth to refuse the gift, da'len."

Freylen rolled her eyes. "Does she know what it means?"

"It means nothing except that Atharil is generous, and a good friend."

"A bear hide is a courtship gift." She scowled.

Feyndir let his sewing fall in his lap, studying her. "But you also know it's bad luck for a hunter to keep it. What would you have had him do, then?"

Her cheeks blazed. "I don't know. I wouldn't have accepted it, that's for certain."

"That's not how it sounds." He resumed his stitching. "You kept him at arm's length, sister. What happened between you was as much your fault as his."

"It doesn't matter now, anyway." Freylen crossed her arms. "I've already told him it's over."

Feyndir was quiet a moment, tying off his thread. "So you did. Though if you were to change your mind, I think you might find his heart still waiting for you."

She was momentarily speechless, which was unusual enough to make Feyndir chuckle. "What makes you think that?" she managed at last. He could hear the hope in her voice, despite her obvious effort to sound indifferent.

He shrugged. "He has been distant again lately. I think he's trying to respect your wishes, but there is pain in his eyes when we speak. He misses you."

Freylen couldn't hide a small smile. "I may miss him, too. A little."

Feyndir shook his head. "Then may the Hearthkeeper help you find words to tell him. Soon."

 

Atharil didn't notice Freylen waiting at the edge of camp until he was nearly upon her. Startled, he changed direction, but she still fell into step beside him.

"What do you want?" He didn't mean it to sound cold, but the sight of her still filled him with a terrible mix of desire and regret. And she'd asked him to stay away.

"Nothing." Her response was knee-jerk, and followed by a sigh. "I visited Feyndir today."

Atharil tried to focus on her words, but his recent conversation with Elodie kept replaying in his mind. He might be a father. The thought both thrilled and terrified him.

"You gave Ryneth your bear hide." There was a hint of accusation in her voice.

"I did." He paused beside a fire to warm his hands, considering. "You made it fairly clear you didn't want it."

"Do you love her?"

The bluntness of her words caught him by surprise. "She's Feyndir's wife. What sort of a question is that?"

"What sort of an answer is that?"

"I care about her, as you well know. We've become close." He frowned. "But that's all."

Freylen nodded, seeming to weigh his words. "You might have offered it to me, then."

He looked at her, startled. "But you said -"

She tossed her hair, the casual gesture leaving him breathless as ever. "You still could have offered. Who knows; I may even have accepted it."

"You may even...." He shook his head, an incredulous grin creeping across his face. "You should wear Fen'Harel's vallaslin, you troublesome elf."

"The Dread Wolf has no markings," she countered.

"True. You're probably already his, and no one's the wiser." He bent towards her, then stopped suddenly. "I'd like to kiss you, Freylen, but someone might see."

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him in. "Let them watch."


	30. Chapter 30

 "Thank you for coming with me."  It was the first time Atharil had been alone with Ryneth in weeks, and he'd expected it might be awkward.  Instead, he was relieved to find her excited and pleased just to be out of camp.  Feyndir had grumbled that they shouldn't go far, but she'd stroked his cheek and promised to be careful, and he'd relented.  Atharil had promised him they'd be back well before dusk.

 "So where are we going?" she huffed.  She moved more slowly now, holding the underside of her expanding belly with one hand as she walked.  "I know you didn't really ask me out here to gather herbs.  I can barely even see the ground."

 Atharil offered her his arm as she stepped over a large root.  "Elodie has returned.  I want you to meet her."

 Ryneth stopped in her tracks.  "Atharil," she said, frowning.  "Does Freylen know this?"

 "Not yet."  He held up a hand.  "I will tell her; I promise.  It's just that the situation is complicated -"  Ryneth snorted " - and I was hoping to get your reaction, first."

 "My reaction?  Why should it matter what I think?"

 "Because we're friends."  He started walking again, leading the way so he didn't have to face her as he spoke.  "Because you helped even when Feyndir was furious with me.  And because Elodie needs someone to talk to who understands more about pregnancy than I do."

 He waited while his words sank in.  It only took a moment.

 "Elodie is _pregnant _?"  She tugged at his arm, turning him around.  "Creators, Atharil!  I don't know whether to congratulate you or punch you!"__

____

____

 "Neither, perhaps."  He took a deep breath.  "Elodie was... attacked by her employer's son.  We don't know for certain who the child's father is."

____

____

 "Oh.  Oh, that's terrible, lethallin.  I'm sorry."  Ryneth sat down heavily on a mossy boulder.  Atharil waited while she processed the situation, the buzz of insects the only sound in the quiet forest.

____

____

 "Do you love her?"  she asked finally.

____

____

 "I... no, I don't."  He blushed at the admission.  "I care about her.  I might have been falling in love with her, once.  Now, though, I just want to take care of her.  Especially if the baby is mine, but even if it isn't.  She has no one else."

____

____

 Ryneth nodded.  "And you're hoping Freylen will understand?  That's asking a lot, Atharil."

____

____

 "I know."  He shifted uncomfortably.  "Will you speak with Elodie, at least?  She's feeling ill much of the time, and I thought you might have some advice for her.  Both of you are carrying children with at least some elven blood, so perhaps -"

____

____

 "Perhaps I know an old Dalish remedy?"  She smiled.  "I have several of them, actually.  Every hahren in our clan claims to know the cure for morning sickness, but none of their concoctions helped me in the slightest.  Maybe they only work for actual elves."

____

____

 Atharil frowned.  "You are fine as you are."

____

____

 She waved a hand at him.  "I know, I know.  It's just... not fair.  Do you know how long it's been since I've even _seen _another shemlen?  Eaten fresh-baked bread?  Slept under a roof?"__

_____ _

_____ _

 "Too long, I'm guessing."  Atharil smiled and offered her a hand up.  "You'll like Elodie, I think.  She makes something called 'scones', for starters.  They have raisins in them."

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth's eyes grew wide.  "Why didn't you say so in the first place?  Lead on!"

_____ _

_____ _

 

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil realized, as he stared up at the wrought-iron gates, how rarely he approached the mansion from the front.  It felt odd coming in like an expected guest rather than dropping over the wall, though clearly the latter wasn't an option with Ryneth in tow.  He watched as Elodie walked up the gravel path to greet them,  noticed the very-pregnant woman in Dalish garb was a human, and jumped backwards.

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth waved at her.  "Ara-seranna ma," she called.  "I didn't mean to startle you!"

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil sighed.  "Yes, speak elven.  I'm sure that clears things up for her nicely."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Oops.  Flat-ear.  Right."

_____ _

_____ _

 "That's... don't call her that, lethallan."  He shook his head.  "I am beginning to see what Lisette meant."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Who?"

_____ _

_____ _

 "Never mind." 

_____ _

_____ _

 Elodie was close now, but she was still staring at Ryneth, uncertain.  She turned the gate key over in her hands.

_____ _

_____ _

 "It's alright," Atharil assured her.  "This is the friend I told you about.  She's come to help."

_____ _

_____ _

 "You told me you were bringing a woman from your clan.  This is a human in elven clothing."  Her tone was reproachful, as if she suspected they were making fun of her.

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth grimaced.  "Nevertheless, I _am _Dalish.  And my back aches from walking.  Open the gate, Elodie."__

_____ _

_____ _

 "I... of course."  She fitted the key in the lock, and turned it. 

_____ _

_____ _

 It niggled at Atharil to see how quickly Elodie complied, even standing out of the way as she pulled back the gate, gaze averted.  Part of him wanted to lift her chin, tell her to stop behaving like a servant.  The other part wanted to rebuke Ryneth for issuing orders.  But he did neither.  It was unconscious on both their parts, he knew. 

_____ _

_____ _

 "Thank you, Elodie," he said, instead.  "Let's go inside, and I'll make the tea while you two talk."

_____ _

_____ _

 

_____ _

_____ _

 Around mouthfuls of cake and scones, Ryneth gave a brief recounting of her courtship with Feyndir.  Elodie listened, her elbows resting on the table, her green eyes growing larger and larger, until at last she clapped a hand over her mouth.  "You're her!"  she exclaimed.  "You're the Piper of Drayton!"

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth blinked.  "I'm the what now?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Elodie laughed.  "I knew that story couldn't be true.  They say in Val Royeaux that a human girl was seduced by a savage Dalish, who gave her a cursed elven flute.  She danced through the streets with it, playing a tune so lovely that all the children followed her into the countryside, where the elves devoured them alive.  That's you!"

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth paled.  "That's not how it happened at all.  And the children were all returned unharmed, I promise you."  She looked to Atharil for help, but he was laughing, too.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Seduced by a savage Dalish," he chuckled.  "That part's not completely wrong."

_____ _

_____ _

 "It's not funny.  People think I led an entire village of children to their deaths!"

_____ _

_____ _

 "And they also think our clan ate them.  So what?"  He replaced the kettle in the hearth and sat down beside her.  "Surely you heard similar tales growing up."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Yes, but I wasn't _in _them."__

_____ _

_____ _

 He smiled sympathetically.  "That's because you weren't Dalish, then."

_____ _

_____ _

 Elodie shook her head.  "It is still hard for me to believe.  What about the vallaslin?  Will you wear that, too, in time?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Neither of them answered immediately.  Atharil cast a sidelong glance at Ryneth, and found her studying the rim of her cup.

_____ _

_____ _

 "No," he answered for her.  "It's not necessary.  Besides, it would ruin our chances of ever using her as a spy."

_____ _

_____ _

 Elodie giggled at that, and Ryneth offered Atharil a small, thankful smile.  He knew Feyndir had inquired more than once about whether his wife might receive the blood writing, but Tirsas felt it was a step too far.  And though he'd never say so, Atharil agreed with their Keeper.  There was something almost profane about the idea of a human wearing vallaslin - even one such as Ryneth.

_____ _

_____ _

 The topic turned then to Elodie's pregnancy, and the hunter excused himself to allow the two women some privacy.  He never knew how to behave when the subject came up, anyway.  As much as she tried to put on a brave face, he knew Elodie was frightened and upset to find herself expecting, and if the baby was the Chevalier's then rightly so.  But if it wasn't....

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil took a deep breath.  He couldn't help but be pleased at the idea that Elodie might be carrying his child, excited even.  And yet it felt wrong to be happy about something that was causing her such distress.  He didn't want her to think he was selfish, that he didn't care what she'd been through.  It made it difficult to speak with her about it at all.

_____ _

_____ _

 At least he'd have Ryneth to confide in now.  And soon, Freylen - provided she didn't break things off for good when he told her.


	31. Chapter 31

 She was with Arinna, the two of them laughing as snowflakes they'd created drifted down over their heads.  The mages were catching them on their tongues.  Atharil stood on the wide branch of a nearby oak, observing the grace with which Freylen turned her staff in a slow arc above her, her long hair falling loose down her back.  She looked carefree for the first time in months.

 Silent, he waited for the lesson to finish.  He kept so still he might have been one of the ancient elvhen statues that dotted Thedas, but within he felt his heart pounding hard against his ribcage, his breath catching in his throat.  Would his words rob Freylen's happiness all over again?  He knew he had to tell her, but part of him wished he could stay in that moment forever.  A moment when he still had everything, before he risked it all with the truth.

 But the moment passed, and Freylen and Arinna hugged before parting.  The First had grown close to the orphan during their weeks of lessons; clearly, she had at least some maternal instincts.  The notion was somehow comforting and upsetting at the same time.  Atharil felt like he was going to be sick, but instead he stepped off the branch.  He landed in a crouch, soundless but for one small twig that cracked beneath him.

 Freylen pretended not to hear.  She turned her back to him, feigning interest in a songbird perched close at hand, and he smiled despite his nerves.  He came up behind her slowly, each bare foot placed gently against soft moss or cool stone, careful not to make any further noise.  He knew how well she loved this game.

 "I have you, vhenan," he murmured against the slant of her ear, his arms twining about her waist.  The elven word was still new between them, and he felt daring using it.

 "Atharil!"  She giggled, high and girlish.  "How long have you been here?"

 "Ages."  He breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of her hair, closing his eyes against the sound of his own voice.  "We need to talk."

 She heard the regret in his tone, and stiffened in his arms.  "What's wrong?  What's happened?"

 "I have to tell you something."  He released her and she turned to him, her wide eyes filled with concern.  "Creators, Freylen.  I don't want to hurt you...."

 "What is it?"  There was an edge to her now; she was wary.  Preparing to flee.  But there was no running from this for either of them.

 "You remember the Orlesian girl - Elodie?"

 She glowered at him.

 "Right.  Of course you do."  Atharil took a deep breath.  "She's pregnant, Freylen." 

 He reached for her hand but she pulled it away, the color draining from her face.  "How do you know this?  Isn't she in Val Royeaux?"

 "She was, for a time.  Unfortunately, the family's Chevalier son forced himself on her shortly after we were together.  They've sent her here to avoid the scandal should their elven servant deliver a child with rounded ears."

 "Oh."  She looked mildly confused.  "You think it might be yours, though?"

 He nodded.  "There's a chance.  We won't know until the birth."

 Freylen sighed, her shoulders hunching with the exhalation as if she were collapsing in on herself.  Atharil reached out again, tentatively, letting his hand rest on her arm.  She didn't react, and after a moment he took a step forward and drew her into an embrace.  Neither of them spoke.

 Finally, he felt her body shudder against his chest, and realized she was crying. 

 "Ir abelas," he whispered, tucking her head protectively beneath his chin.  "I love you, Freylen.  Please don't let this come between us."

 She drew back, her face streaked with tears.  "What will you do, Atharil?  If it is yours?"

 It hadn't occurred to him, somehow, that this would even be a question.  "If the baby's mine, it belongs with me.  Of course."

 "And where will Elodie be?"

 "She... I don't know."  He felt his face grow hot.  "I've asked her to join our clan, but she doesn't-"

 Freylen turned away.  "You haven't actually discussed this with her, have you?"

 "No."  He felt foolish suddenly, and very worried.  "She plans to give the child to the Chantry if it's human, so I just assumed...."

 "You assumed she wouldn't want to keep it if it's yours, either?  You think it's that easy for a mother to give up her child?"

 Atharil opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again.  Freylen was right.  "I've been hesitant to speak of it," he admitted finally.  "She's already traumatized.  I didn't want to upset her further."

 Freylen shook her head.  "I understand, and I sympathize," she said, facing him again.  "But if you want to continue seeing me, you need to sort this out.  I need to know what our future is going to look like."

 Atharil grinned.  "Our future?  You consider such things?"

 "Occasionally."  She tried to hide a smile as she took his hands.  "Sort this out, first.  Then we can talk more about us."

 He bent to kiss her, and tasted the salt still on her cheeks.  In the morning sunlight, it sparkled like the conjured snow that was melting in the grass at their feet.

 "Thank you," he whispered, touching his forehead to hers.

 "Ma nuvenin, vhenan."

 


	32. Chapter 32

 Feyndir was exhausted.  He'd begun his journey in the dark, slipping out of the tent before the sun rose to avoid waking Ryneth.  With luck, she'd assume he was patrolling somewhere on the far edges of the clan's territory.  It wasn't unusual for him to be gone all day, or even overnight, on such assignments, though lately Tirsas had been keeping him closer to camp.  The baby wasn't quite due yet by human standards, but elven pregnancies were a bit shorter.  There was no telling when the child would come, now.

 Which was why he needed to finish the aravel.  He'd been working on it in secret with Master Thelen for weeks, the elderly craftsman grumbling at every human detail the young scout tried to add.

 "If you insist on sullying my work with carvings of mabaris and horses and windmills, then at least have the good sense to confine them to the interior," he'd huffed.  "The outside must honor the Creators - especially Sylaise.  You want a happy marriage, yes?  A healthy baby, and an easy labor for your wife?  Then you need to show the Hearthkeeper respect."  He'd nodded in agreement with himself, and patted Feyndir roughly on the back.  "May she bless your home, da'len, even if you do fill it with shem children.  Who can say this is not the path the Creators intended for you, eh?"

 "Ma serannas, hahren."  Feyndir had to bite his cheek to keep from cursing at the man.  Thelen meant well, clearly.  The craftsman had never uttered an unkind word about Ryneth, and he'd shown no hesitation when Feyndir approached him for help with the project.  Still... shem children.  They would be elf-blooded, not shemlen.  Even if that distinction was lost on some of their clansmen.

 Feyndir sighed.  The pack on his back was heavy with furs, and his stomach was growling like a great bear.  But there was smoke in the distance, rising in a thin line against a bright blue sky, and the man to whom that hearth belonged would welcome him.  He pressed on, finally leaving the shade of the Graves behind and stepping, squinting, into the late afternoon sunlight.

 Immediately, he felt his throat tighten with the familiar feelings of exposure and vulnerability.  A Dalish alone, far from his clan and standing in the open.  He had to force himself to continue forward, each step away from the cover of the forest making him more nervous.  His grip on his bow tightened, and he kept his eyes fixed on the door of the small house in front of him.  He just needed to reach it.

 To his left, there was a sudden creak as the heavy door of the barn swung open.  Feyndir pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it, his heart leaping into his throat.

 "What the- "  The stranger stopped in his tracks, fingering the knife on his belt.  "Maker!"

 "Feyndir!"  Sean emerged from behind the man, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed.  "It's all right, Lukas.  Feyndir is a, ah, trading partner of mine."

 "You trade with the Dalish?"  There was fear in the man's voice.  Fear and disgust.  Feyndir was somewhat surprised by the latter, given that Lukas was almost certainly an elf himself, though it was difficult to tell.  He wore loose clothing, and a stocking cap pulled down over his ears despite the warm weather.  Feyndir made a note of it and remained on edge.

 "From time to time, yes."  Ryneth's father turned to face the man, and Feyndir realized he'd  purposefully placed himself between them.  "Don't worry, he's not here to hurt anyone."

 Lukas continued to touch the handle of his blade, his large eyes darting from Sean's face to Feyndir's.  "I wouldn't be sure of that," he muttered.  "You can't trust those heathen savages any farther than-"

 Sean clapped his hands together.  "Why don't you see to Molly, Lukas?" he said, his voice full of false cheer.  "I'm sure she could use a good rubdown.  Feyndir and I will take our discussion inside."  He put a hand on the scout's arm and turned him toward the house, forcing him to lower his weapon.

 Lukas shook his head, but turned back to the barn.  "Of course," he grumbled.  "Let it in your house, boss.  Great idea."

 

 Inside, Sean breathed a sigh of relief as he barred the door behind them. 

 "Sorry about that.  I had to take on help for the harvest."  He took a seat at the table and motioned for Feyndir to join him.  "Lukas is a hard worker, but he's skittish when it comes to the Dalish, and for good reason."  He arched an eyebrow.  "Seems he had an unpleasant encounter with one of your clansmen - an elf with flaxen hair, and a long scar down one side of his face."

 "Atharil," Feyndir sighed, letting his heavy pack slide off his back.  He sat down across from Sean, rolling his shoulders to relieve the tightness in them.  "If that's who he pissed off, your farmhand is lucky to be alive."

 Sean grunted in agreement.  "You saw that hat he wears, yes?  Your friend cropped the poor fellow's ears."

 "So he is an elf, then.  I wasn't sure."

 "Atharil is hot-headed and unstable.  It makes me nervous to know there's someone like him in your clan."

 Feyndir chuckled.  "All Dalish are unstable; haven't you heard?"

 "It's not a joke, lad."  Sean fixed his son-in-law with a disapproving look.  "Are you certain my daughter is safe with him in your camp?"

 "Not entirely, no."  He gave a wry smile, and shook his head.  "Don't worry, hahren.  Atharil and Ryneth have become close - he would never allow any harm to come to her."

 Sean blinked, considering.  "He's a handsome elf, I'll give him that.  Scar and all."

 Feyndir didn't miss the implication.  "My sister thinks so, anyway.  They're courting."

 "Ah.  Right."  Sean stood up.  "Well... that's good, then.  Perhaps he'll start a family of his own, soon.  Might calm him down a bit."  He stoked the fire and set the kettle on its swinging arm above it.

 Feyndir thought of Elodie.  "Perhaps," he agreed, eager to change the subject.  "Were you able to get everything?"

 Sean ticked off the list on his fingers.  "Fabric for curtains, a quilt, a hand mirror, a figurine of Andraste... I thought Ryneth followed your gods, now?"

 "It depends on her mood.  When she's angry, she's Andrastian."

 "Best to keep her happy, then.  That girl is a one-woman Exalted March."

 Feyndir stifled a laugh.  "I'm not sure you're allowed to make those kinds of jokes, hahren."

 "I gave you two my blessing, didn't I?  I can say whatever I like."  He folded his arms.  "You're sure your Keeper won't mind you bringing back all this... human stuff?"

 Feyndir shrugged.  "As long as Ryneth keeps them to herself, he's not opposed to her having a few 'trinkets'.  And the sailcloth?"

 The older man frowned.  "I have that, too.  Had to visit two different merchants to get enough, though, and I can't tell you the strange looks I got buying it.  We're nowhere near any large bodies of water, you know.  Thank the Maker you plan to dye it yourself - can you imagine if I'd asked for it in red?"

 "I apologize for having drawn attention to you."  The elf's brows knit together in concern.  "I should have found the material another way."

 Sean placed a mug in front of him.  "Nonsense.  I was happy to do it, truth be told.  I'm not as young as I used to be, Feyndir.  Hendry and Lukas have been handling most of the work around here; it feels good to be useful where I can."

   
 Someone tried the door just then, and Feyndir leapt up from the table.

 "Da?  Open up, Dad."

 Sean threw a glance at his nervous guest.  "I'm coming."  He lifted the plank, and the door swung inward.  Ryneth's younger brother stepped in, taller and more broad-shouldered than Feyndir remembered.  But then, Hendry had been lying flat on his back the last time the elf saw him, recovering from an arrow wound. 

 Hendry stared at him.  "Lukas said you'd let a Dalish into the house," he said, speaking to his father, his eyes never leaving Feyndir's.  "This is him, then?"

 Sean cleared his throat.  "This is your sister's husband, yes.  I'm so glad you're finally getting the chance to meet properly.  A shame you missed each other the last time he visited."

 Hendry's lip curled.  "This is who Ryneth was protecting the night she got my friends killed."

 "Your friends were on their way to attack my clan," Feyndir countered, his voice low.  "We defended ourselves."

 "Defended yourselves?"  Hendry's hand flitted to his side, hovering over the short sword there.  "And what about the woodsmen you killed before that?"

 "At least they weren't unarmed women.  I saw Ryneth after you struck her - I remember the bruise you left."  Feyndir reached for his own dagger, and felt Sean's hand on his arm.

 "Enough!"  Sean scowled.  "I will not have my sons at each other's throats."

 Hendry paled.  "Sons?  That's a poor joke.  This... wood elf is no relation to -"

 "This family will get along."  The older man's tone was icy.

 Feyndir felt a surge of affection for his father-in-law.  "Ir abelas, hahren," he said, removing his hand from the handle of his blade.

 "Sorry, dad."  Hendry sounded contrite, but he glowered at Feyndir.  "Lukas is leaving because of you, brother."

 "What?"  Sean sank into a chair, looking tired now that the danger of a fight breaking out had passed. 

 Hendry nodded.  "He's packing his things now.  Shaking like a leaf and mumbling about knife-ears.  Ironic, considering... well."

 Sean rubbed at his temples.  "We're in the middle of the harvest, and he's jumping ship.  How are we going to get the south field in without him?"

 Feyndir and Hendry exchanged a look.  The elf could see they were both thinking the same thing, but neither were eager to actually voice it out loud.

 "One day," Hendry said finally, grim.  "If we start at daybreak, and work straight through, we can have the field cleared by nightfall."

 The elf shook his head.  "The Dalish are no strangers to hard work, but we're not farmers, either.  And I need to return to Ryneth."

 Sean nodded.  "Of course.  You should be with her when the time comes."

 Hendry rolled his eyes.  "It's only one day.  And what will Ryneth think if you leave her family destitute?  Seed is expensive, ears.  We've sunk all our savings into this crop."

 "Hendry -" Sean began reproachfully, but Feyndir shook his head.

 "No, he's right.  This is my fault - I drove your farmhand off.  Of course I'll stay and make it right." 

 Sean sighed.  "I wish it wasn't necessary, Feyndir, but I'm in no position to turn down the offer.  And maybe the chance to get to know each other better won't be such a bad thing?"  He looked from one of them to the other, hope in his eyes.

 Hendry cleared his throat.  "Oh, sure.  I can't wait.  I'm sure we have loads in common."

 "We have one thing in common, at least."  Feyndir crossed his arms.

 "We'd both like to kill each other?"  Hendry looked confused.  "Oh, you mean Ryneth.  We both care about her.  Right.  Two things, then."

 Sean groaned.  "That's my boys," he said, pushing back his chair.  "Tea?"


	33. Chapter 33

 "Um... thank you."  Elodie reached for the brace of nugs slowly, her nose wrinkling.  "There is salted meat in the larder, you know.  This isn't necessary."

 Atharil frowned.  "Surely you'd prefer fresh, though.  It's better for you and... and the child."

 "Yes, of course."  She smiled weakly, gripping the nugs by their ears and holding them as far from her body as she could manage.  "It's just -" she covered her mouth with the back of her free hand, " - it's just I've never skinned something before.  I'm a lady's companion, Atharil, not a kitchen maid."

 "Oh.  I can show you how, if you -"  Elodie shook her head, looking pale.  "Or I can just do it for you.  Would that be better?"

 "It would, yes."  She handed the nugs back at once, looking relieved, and retreated toward the mansion as he reached for the dagger strapped to his thigh.  "I'll just wait inside, if you don't mind."

 "If you like, though it will only take me a few moments."  But she'd already slipped away, the kitchen door closing softly behind her.  The hunter shook his head.  "Well, aren't I off to a great start," he mumbled, taking one of the animals by a back leg.  Deftly, he gathered its skin around the ankle and twisted until it broke, then peeled it back to the hip, revealing the deep pink meat beneath.  "Dare I even ask if she wants the furs?"

 

 Elodie was sat before the fire when he entered, staring into the flames.

 "Has your great Orlesian lord a spit on which to roast these?"  He half feared she'd say no, and then what would he do with them?  She smiled, though, and nodded toward the hearth. 

 "Of course."  She watched as he skewered the nugs, their tiny back legs already pierced through with twigs to hold them in place.  "I'm afraid I'm not much of a cook, either.  Not when it comes to proper food.  Her Ladyship only enjoys baking sweets."

 He finished and sank into the chair beside hers.  "How do you feed yourself, then?" 

 "The kitchen staff cook for everyone in the house.  The servants all eat together."

 "That's how you eat in Val Royeaux.  How do you eat here, alone?"

 She sighed.  "As I told you, the larder is well-stocked.  The cheese wheels alone will last me for months.  You should see them; they're enormous."

 "You cannot live on cheese, Elodie."

 "Did you come here for this?"  She folded her arms.  "To scold me about my diet?"

 "Of course not."  Atharil took a deep breath, and decided to plunge straight in.  "When the child comes... if its ears are pointed, what will you do?"

 Elodie pulled the thin shawl closer around her shoulders.  "Bring it to my mother, I suppose.  She's a seamstress; she can mind it while she works."

 A cold chill ran along Atharil's spine.  "Your mother lives in an alienage."

 "Yes.  So?  Surely you don't expect her Ladyship to welcome me back with a mewling infant in my arms?  I'll be lucky if she doesn't tire of waiting and replace me as it is."

 He felt his throat constricting, and swallowed hard.  "You will not take my da'len to an alienage.  I won't allow it."  The words came out low, rasping, almost a snarl.  He didn't intend them as a threat, but when he met Elodie's wide eyes he could see fear there.  "What kind of life would that be?" he continued, struggling to soften his tone.

 "The best life I can give.  What else would you have me do?"

 Atharil seized the question, his heart hammering in his ears.  "Join my clan."  He leaned forward in his seat, taking one of her small hands in his own.  "You will be safe among the People, and so will our child.  We can raise it together."

 "As a family?"  She smiled sadly.

 Atharil stared at her for a moment, speechless with shame.  "I... I'm sorry," he managed at last.  "There is another, Elodie.  I had thought -"

 She laid her free hand atop his.  "I know," she said.  "One does not live amongst the Orlesian nobility for long without learning to read these things.  But thank you for being honest."

 "It doesn't change my offer."

 "But of course it does.  Even if I were willing to become Dalish, I could never live alongside your lover.  It wouldn't be fair to any of us."

 Atharil was quiet for a moment.  "Then what about the baby?"

 "What?"  She looked at him, confused.

 "I could raise our child, Elodie.  I want to."

 She drew back, covering her stomach with one arm.  "You're asking me to give it up, then," she said, disbelief in her voice.  "Dalish clans don't stay in one place; I'd lose track of you both before long."

 "Yes."  He saw no point in lying about it.  "But I swear she'll know of you, and perhaps when she's older...."

 Elodie paled.  "She won't know the Maker."

 "She'll know the gods of her own people.  And she'll know her father, which is more than either of us can say."

 "Yes, but lose her mother."  She shook her head.  "And you seem certain it's a girl, as well."

 He arched an eyebrow.  "Dalish intuition.  You see, those of us who walk the lonely path have a connection to the ancient ways that allows us to -"

 "To be master bullshitters?"  Elodie smiled faintly, a trace of color returning to her cheeks.  "I'll consider your offer, Atharil.  But first I have to visit this clan of yours.  I need to see for myself whether I can trust my child with them, if it is indeed an elf at all."  She took a steadying breath.  "And I need to meet the woman who has your heart.  She may become our child's mother in my absence, and I want to look in her eyes and know she is worthy of it."

 Atharil cleared his throat.  "Whatever you ask," he said, his voice husky with emotion.  "The Dalish value our children above all else, Elodie.  I'll show you our daughter will be happy among the People, and you won't need to worry anymore."

 She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.  "Turn the nugs, Atharil.  Even I can see they're starting to blacken."


	34. Chapter 34

 Ryneth dressed that morning in a mild panic.  Two nights in a row, Feyndir had not returned to her.  She'd been certain he'd be beside her when she awoke, exhausted from following some group of traders, or leading bandits on a chase through the Graves until they tired and he could finish them off in their sleep.  But there was no sign of him, and it put a knot in her stomach.

 "Atharil!"  The hunter had just woken himself, stretching his lean body like a cat as he emerged from his tent.  As Ryneth approached, he reached back through the flap to offer a hand to Freylen, who stumbled out into the cool morning with a shiver and a yawn.

 "What is it, lethallan?"  He blinked at her tiredly, and her eyes darted from his to Freylen's.  The elven girl just shrugged and winked.  There were dark circles under her eyes, as well.

 "Oh.  I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"

 Atharil grinned.  "It's alright."  His faded blue eyes slid over Freylen's lithe form.  "We were up late talking."

 The First shot him a scolding look.  "What do you need, sister?"

 Ryneth twisted her hands together.  "Feyndir didn't return to camp last night.  Or the night before."

 Atharil exchanged a look with Freylen.  "Oh, that.  Should we tell her?"

 "It was meant to be a surprise," Freylen sighed, "but I know he wouldn't want you to worry, either.  Feyndir went to see your father."

 "What?  Now?  He lives all the way on the Eastern edge of the Graves.  It's nearly a full day's journey!"

 "He's trading Sean furs for some... supplies.  I'd rather not say more."  Atharil smiled sympathetically.  "He did mention he'd be gone overnight; I wouldn't worry."

 "Overnight," Ryneth repeated, stroking her belly absently.  It had become such a habit that she found herself doing it almost constantly of late; sometimes she wondered whether she'd even be able to stop once the baby came.  "But not two nights.  He should still be home by now."

 Freylen laid a hand on her shoulder.  "Feyndir is well able to take care of himself, Ryneth.  But if it makes you feel better, we'll go to the Keeper together, and ask him to send out some hunters."

 Ryneth nodded.  "Ma serannas.  Yes, that would help."

 Atharil stretched again.  "Just not me.  I'm exhausted."

 Freylen arched an eyebrow at him.  "You'll go if you're needed."

 He met her eyes, saw she was serious, and looked away again.  "Of course," he mumbled.  "Ir abelas."

 "Men," said Freylen, taking Ryneth's arm with a smirk.  "Let's go see if we can track down yours."

 

 The wide flaps of the Keeper's tent were already tied back, and Freylen ducked inside without bothering to announce herself.  Ryneth followed behind with somewhat less confidence.  Tirsas made her nervous now in a way Maeven never had, and she was glad she wasn't approaching him alone.  Their Keeper might be tempted to refuse the begrudgingly-accepted shemlen, but surely he'd think twice before denying his First such a simple request.

 "Good morning, hahren."  Freylen knelt beside him.  "I need hunters."

 "How many, and for what?"  Tirsas looked up briefly from the parchment he was studying and frowned at Ryneth, his eyes fixed on her stomach.  "Andaran atish'an, da'len."

 "Keeper."  She nodded stiffly.  "Feyndir didn't return to camp last night."

 "I know.  Nor the night before that.  I am kept informed about these things, you know."  He looked at Freylen.  "Do we have some reason to suspect he's come to harm?"

 The First gave Ryneth a sidelong glance.  "Not exactly, but it's a small thing to send a few hunters out.  We know the direction to search."

 Tirsas sighed.  "Very well.  Send Caran and Nahari, then.  Neither of them has had a successful hunt in weeks, anyway.  Let them make themselves useful."

 Freylen tilted her head.  "Thank you, Keeper.  I'll inform them."  She rose, and the pair turned to leave.

 "Just a minute."  Tirsas was reading the parchment again.  "Ryneth, stay a moment."

 Ryneth felt her heart thud heavily against her ribs.  Dismayed, she watched as Freylen departed, then turned back around to face the Keeper.

 "Sit, please."  He motioned to the rug beside him.  "If you're able."

 Ryneth knelt down beside him with effort, lacing her hands in front of her defensively.

 "You are quite pregnant."  There was an unmistakable note of displeasure in his tone.  "I've known you were expecting for some time now, but was waiting for you to tell me yourself.  Why have you and Feyndir chosen to avoid discussing this with me?"

 She felt her cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and anger.  "What is there to say?  I was not under the impression we needed your permission to have a family."

 "Really?"  He set aside the document, fixing her with a steely gaze.  "Is that an elf you're carrying?"

 "Our child will be elf-blooded.  As if you didn't know."  It was all she could do to keep her voice level.  There didn't seem to be enough air in the tent, anymore.

 "An elf-blooded human.  And as such, it cannot remain among the People."

 "No...."  The room was slanting now, growing dark around the edges of her vision.  "You can't do that.  It's our child!"  Dimly, she was aware she was shouting at him, but she didn't care.

 "When the baby is born, you must find another home for it," Tirsas continued evenly.  "Surely you can see that it doesn't belong here.  The clan has made an exception for you, but we cannot afford -"

 "What's going on in here?"  Suddenly, Atharil was kneeling beside her, picking her up off the ground where she'd collapsed, enfolding her in his arms.  She clung to him, sobbing.  "By the Dread Wolf, Tirsas, what did you say to her?"

 "I merely told her a truth long overdue - that she cannot have whatever she likes.  She took it as well as most shemlen."

 Ryneth sniffed deeply.  It was an ugly, wet sound, but that didn't matter.  "He said-"  Her voice caught and she tried again, speaking into Atharil's neck because she couldn't bear to look at either of them.  "He said the baby can't stay.  With our clan.  It can't...."

 "Is that what you told her?"  Atharil's voice was a low rumble.  "You said her child isn't welcome in this clan?  That Feyndir's child isn't welcome-"

 "Feyndir made his choice.  Do you think any other clan would allow this?  Do you know what would happen if they did?"  Tirsas was on his feet now, and Atharil followed, pulling Ryneth up with him.  Her legs felt as if they might give out at any moment.

 "It is one child!"  Atharil was close to yelling, and between his words Ryneth could hear the murmurs of a crowd forming outside the tent. 

 "And how many more will she have?" Tirsas shouted back at him.  "Who will they bond with when they're grown?  Within a handful of generations, this clan could be half shemlen.  A few more, and we'd cease to exist entirely!" 

 There was a ringing stillness in the tent when he was finished speaking.  Atharil didn't answer, but continued holding Ryneth against him as if he could shield her from the Keeper's pronouncement with his body alone.

 After a moment, Tirsas sighed heavily and shook his head.  When he spoke again, he addressed Ryneth, his tone softer.  "You care about the elven people, da'len.  I know you do.  And you are part of Clan Lutharra absolutely and without reservation.  But all Dalish know that the needs of the People must come first.  Can you put them first?  Can you be Dalish when it's hardest, and when it matters most?"

 Ryneth could feel the Keeper's words like knives sticking into her chest.  And lower, too, she felt them; a dull ache that grew steadily in intensity until she released Atharil and doubled over, a low moan escaping her in place of an answer. 

 "Ryneth?"  Freylen was returning from her errand, pushing her way through the onlookers to reach them.  She ducked into the tent and stopped, her wide eyes growing even larger at the sight.  "Creators, give her some space!  She's going into labor."


	35. Chapter 35

 Everything ached.  His back and sides from swinging the scythe, his arms from holding it, even his legs were tired from the repetitive motion.  To top it off, his face, grown accustomed to the constant semi-shade of the forest, had burnt in the sun.  The ridges of his ears were especially red, and itched fiercely.  He dared not scratch at them.  Hendry found it excessively amusing when he did.

 "I will not force her to speak with you if she doesn't wish it," Feyndir repeated for the dozenth time.  "It may well be that you are wasting your time following me."

 "The wheat needs time to dry before it can be threshed, anyway."  Hendry reached down and gave Molly's neck a pat.  "Besides, I don't know how you thought you were going to carry everything back without a horse."

 Feyndir grunted.  "I would have managed."

 "Oh, I'm sure you would have.  A big, strapping fellow like yourself."

 The elf found his hands balling into fists, and forced them to open.  "You won't be permitted to enter the camp, you know."

 Hendry ran a hand through his coppery hair.  "Well, thank the Maker for that.  I only want to see my sister, not gather 'round the campfire and sing 'Once We Were'."

 Feyndir stopped in his tracks, and Hendry pulled up alongside him. 

 "It's just a joke," he began.  "Don't get all -"

 The scout waved a hand at him, impatient.  "Shut up," he hissed, his eyebrows furrowing as he turned his head toward the faint sound of voices up ahead.  "Wait here."

 An oak stood nearby, one of the massive, creaking elder trees that were said to have been planted in memory of fallen Emerald Knights.  Feyndir scurried up its thick trunk and out onto a wide branch, peering into the distance.  At first, he saw nothing, but then a glint of metal caught his eye.  He followed it, stepping lightly from one neighboring tree to the next until he could make out the group below through a hole in the canopy. 

 There were four of them, all human, and judging by their mismatched Orlesian armor and worn clothing they were deserters.  Freemen.  Feyndir cursed under his breath, glancing back over his shoulder to where Hendry waited.  The men were headed directly toward him, arguing amongst themselves about blood magic and Grey Wardens as they walked.  Something had happened in the Western Approach; the elf couldn't tell what, and didn't much care.  He knew he couldn't let the group reach Ryneth's brother.  At best, they'd rob him, and Feyndir would lose the things he'd collected for the aravel.  More likely, they'd also take the boy prisoner, or even kill him on the spot.   
   
 Feyndir made a quick decision.  Choosing the biggest and most heavily-armed of the men, he nocked an arrow to his bow and drew, inhaling deeply.  The man was large, but the elf's target was small, so took an extra moment to aim.  Then he loosed.

 The arrow found its mark, sinking deep into the thin strip of exposed neck between the human's ill-fitting breastplate and his dented helm.  The man let out a brief, surprised scream that ended in a gurgle, clutching desperately at his blood-slicked throat before falling face-first to the forest floor.

 A moment of stunned silence followed, the Freeman's companions starring blankly into the ferns where their friend's body lay twitching.  Feyndir used the time to pull another arrow from his quiver and draw again.  This time, he simply aimed for the man nearest him, an underfed-looking fellow with no real armor to speak of.  An errand boy in his previous life, most likely, or a messenger.  He was only beginning to turn his head when the elf loosed.

 "Huh," he said, the force of the arrow knocking him back a step.  He looked down at his chest, a circle of bright red spreading all about his heart, and then up into the trees.  Against the odds, he managed to spot the Dalish looking back at him, already reaching for a third arrow.  He had time to point shakily in Feyndir's direction before he, too, died on his feet and fell over.

 The last two Freemen were shook from their stupor now.  They glanced at one another and took off running, fleeing in opposite directions.  Feyndir followed the one who sprinted up the narrow path toward Hendry.

 "Help me, serah!"  The Freeman reached Ryneth's brother first.  He clawed at Molly's bridle like a drowning man, causing the mare to toss her head uneasily.  "It's the Dalish!"

 Feyndir, just a moment behind, saw the boy's eyes widen in confusion.  "The Dalish?" he repeated, placing an uncertain hand on the hilt of his sword.  "Where?"

 "Right here."  The scout dropped to the ground, an arrow nocked to his bow.  "Get out of the way, Hendry."

 The Freeman, a sallow-faced man with lank brown hair and a nose that looked as if it'd been broken more than once, looked from Hendry to the elf, wild-eyed.  "You know him?"

 "What are you doing, Feyndir?"  Instead of withdrawing, Hendry nudged Molly forward until the horse was between the Dalish and his target.  "I won't let you kill him!"

 Feyndir growled with frustration.  "He's a Freeman, da'len.  A dangerous man.  Listen to me!"

 It was too late.  Desperate, the man slipped a dagger from his sleeve and yanked Hendry out of the saddle, pressing the blade to his throat.

 "Drop the bow, knife-ear," he panted.  "Now!"

 Feyndir let the weapon fall.  "Release him."

 The man laughed, a short bark of surprise.  "Well, that was quick.  Who is he, elf?  Your lover?"  He sniffed at the side of Hendry's head.  "You out here fucking rabbits, boy?"

 "What difference does it make?"  Feyndir took a step closer, stooping to keep eye contact with the man past Molly's neck.   He wished to Ghilan'nain the horse between them would move.  "Just let him go."

 "Stay right there!"  The man tightened his grip, a thin red line forming along the edge of his dagger.  He leaned in closer to Hendry's ear.  "It's the same as screwing sheep, you know. Does he bleat for you?"

 Hendry looked up, his jaw clenched and his eyes wide.  "He's not my lover."

 "No?  Explain it to me, then.  Why is some pagan Dalish willing to -"  The man's body jerked suddenly, and a trickle of blood ran down the side of Hendry's throat.  Then, slowly, he slumped over sideways, his heart pierced from behind by a pair of arrows.

 Hendry jumped away from the body, shaking and pale.  "Andraste's ashes!"

 "Are you all right?"  Feyndir clamped a hand on his shoulder, his gaze fixed on the shallow cut beneath his chin.

 "Yeah, I'm...."  Hendry shivered.  "What a disgusting person.  The things he said...."

 The Dalish looked at him, an amused glint in his large eyes.  "Baaaaaa."

 "Feyndir!  That's... Maker!"  But suddenly he was chuckling.  And then they both were, the fear and tension of the past few minutes draining away as man and elf doubled over together in fits of laughter.

 "I'm sorry," Hendry said at last, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.  "I shouldn't have doubted you."

 Feyndir considered.  "He was a human.  I understand the instinct to protect your own."  He waved then, and a pair of Dalish emerged from the undergrowth, their bows still at the ready.  "Aneth ara," he said, bowing slightly.  "You are far from camp, but I'm thankful for your help."

 "We were sent to find you."  Nahari looked warily at Hendry as she spoke.  "This shemlen is a friend of yours?"

 Feyndir nodded reassuringly at Hendry, who'd tensed up again at the sight of his clansmen.  "Hendry is kin to me.  He's my wife's brother."

 Caran set a foot on the dead Freeman's shoulder.  "It's good of you to fetch him, then," he said, grunting as he retrieved the arrows.  "A woman should have family near at such times."

 The color drained from Feyndir's face.  "What are you saying?"

 Nahari smiled.  "We heard the news just as we were setting out.  Mythal'enaste, lethallin.  May the All-Mother guide Ryneth's journey."

 Hendry frowned.  "What's that in the Common Tongue?"

 Feyndir ignored the question.  "Nahari, Caran, can you guide my brother to a safe place to camp?"  He picked up his bow with trembling hands, and gave a shrill whistle.  "I will check on him later."

 "Of course," Caran promised.  "We'll settle him in the clearing south of the encampment, and keep watch."

 "Wait, you're leaving me with... with them?"  Hendry spluttered.  "To be minded like a child?"

 "Ma serannas."  A halla appeared, ghostly pale against the vibrant greens of the forest, and Feyndir stroked its neck for a moment before grasping it by one spiralling horn and swinging lightly onto its back.  "Thank the Creators you also ventured far from camp today," he told the animal, his voice lilting.  "Now, run.  Rabbit needs me."

 


	36. Chapter 36

 "I cannot do this, Freylen."

 "Don't be selfish."  She dipped her little finger into the shallow bowl.  "Someone must represent the All-Father for this child.  Who else if not you?"

 "Can we not just wait for Feyndir?"

 "When he returns, he can take his rightful place, of course."  She lowered her voice.  "But we don't know how long that will be.  And Ryneth needs someone now, so hold still."  She withdrew her digit, its tip coated in vibrant red blood, and began to trace the curving lines of Elgar'nan's vallaslin upon Atharil's worried brow.  "Stop scrunching your forehead."

 "I don't know how to help her.  It will be awkward."

 Freylen smiled slightly.  "I will guide you both.  Consider it practice, if you like."

 The hunter frowned, and Freylen gave him an exasperated look.  "Sorry," he said, relaxing his expression so she could continue her work.  "Elodie is Andrastian.  She will not expect me to attend her labor wearing the blood writing of the god of fatherhood."

 "No, but she will expect you to attend.  And there will be blood."

 Atharil felt his stomach knot.  "That's not helpful."

 There was a soft moan from the nearby tent, and Freylen glanced in that direction before lifting an eyebrow at Atharil.  "Are you going to continue complaining, hunter?"

 He could hear the note of disapproval in her tone.  "No.  Ir abelas, vhenan."  He leaned in to kiss her, and she smudged a line.

 "Fenedhis, Atharil," she muttered, grabbing a cloth to wipe the mistake from his face.  "This is still a vallaslin, you know, even if it's only temporary.  Have some respect."

 

 When she was finished, Freylen entered the tent.  Atharil followed, still reluctant.  He didn't want to be a stand-in for Feyndir in any way, and certainly not under such intimate circumstances.  It reminded him that he'd already overstepped his boundaries with Ryneth once, and the memory of that brief kiss filled him with guilt even as it made his heart beat faster.  Which filled him with more guilt.  He didn't want to think about it.

 "Mythal'enaste, da'len," Freylen said, using a Keeper's form of address.  She was a stand-in, too, Atharil realized with a pang.  Tirsas should have been the one to draw the markings, but after what he'd said, it was impossible.  "Will you receive the All-Mother's vallaslin, and earn her favor for your child?"

 Ryneth, lying curled in a ball on her bedding, snorted.  "I'm not allowed vallaslin, remember?  Besides, I doubt your Mythal wants to bless a baby who isn't even elven."

 Freylen knelt beside her, setting the bowl of sacred blood aside.  "Mythal is not Tirsas, lethallan.  She is a mother, as you are.  Does a mother turn away from her children because of the shape of their ears, or the contour of their noses?"

 Ryneth's eyes were still red from crying, and now she blinked back fresh tears.  "I'm not allowed, anyway," she repeated bitterly.  "The Keeper would -"

 Atharil crossed his arms.  "Tirsas isn't here."

 Freylen smiled over her shoulder at him.  "The Keeper has entrusted your care to me, my sister.  So, it is my decision to make."  She picked up the bowl again.  "Shall I?"

 After a moment, Ryneth nodded slowly, wiping at her eyes.  She sat up, then grimaced as another contraction took hold.

 "Atharil, sit behind her," the First directed, re-wetting her finger.  "Rub her shoulders.  Hum something pleasant."

 "I... what?  All right."  Atharil could feel the heat of his blush rising into his hairline, but didn't argue.  He slid in behind Ryneth on the pile of furs, grasping for a tune, his hands hesitating on either side of her neck.  Finally, he settled on "Mir Da'len Somniar".  It was a song for children, after all, and therefore at least somewhat fitting.

 "What is it?" Ryneth asked, eyeing the bowl warily as Atharil rubbed the tension from her muscles.

 "Halla blood.  Sacred blood for sacred writing."  Freylen shook her head at Ryn's worried expression.  "It does not cost a life.  Only a small amount is needed."

 The First began to draw then, her dainty finger leaving a thin line of blood across Ryneth's cheek.  "I'm going to give you the same variation Feyndir wears," she said.  "I can't deny I'm intrigued to see what the Mother's markings look like on a human."

 Atharil felt Ryneth's shoulders tense again.  "Feyndir doesn't know," she said flatly.  Then, with more feeling, "How am I going to tell him?  We can't give up our child, Freylen!  We'll have to leave."

 Freylen's face darkened.  "No one is leaving, lethallan.  Not you, not Feyndir, and not this baby."

 "But Keeper Tirsas -"

 "When I'm finished here, you and Atharil are going to take a nice, long walk.  Circle the camp as many times as you're able - it will help to move things along."  The First's eyes met Atharil's, and he nodded his agreement.  "Meanwhile, I will speak with Tirsas.  His words will not stand, or may the Dread Wolf take me."

 "Freylen!"  Atharil stopped in unhappy surprise.

 "What?  Do you think you're the only one who can swear to the Lord of Tricksters, vhenan?  I know the vow you made when you reconciled with my brother."  She continued the writing, her jaw set.

 Atharil sighed.  "The Keeper may not listen to your words.  His mind seemed set."

 She shrugged, but her scowl deepened.  "Then I will unset it."

 

 A few minutes later, Atharil and Ryneth exited the tent to sideways glances and muttering.  A few mouths dropped openly at the sight of a shemlen in blood writing, and more than a few heads shook in disapproval.

 "I shouldn't have let you do this," she whispered to Freylen, who was right behind them.  "I should wash it off."

 "You will not."  The First looked appalled.  "This writing stays until the baby comes, and then - only then - it will be removed with the proper reverence.  'Wash it off', indeed.  Besides, you look beautiful."

 She did.  Even with her eyes red, her cheeks puffy from crying, the sight of Ryneth in vallaslin took Atharil's breath away.  He began to wonder if he'd been wrong all along to think the markings weren't appropriate for her, that by wearing them she'd diminish them somehow.  The opposite was true; she made them more, because she wore them despite expectation and not because of it.  She chose the Creators out of love, just as she chose the Dalish, just as she chose Feyndir.

 She chose Feyndir.  Atharil looked up to see Freylen studying him, a hint of worry in her eyes.  He returned her gaze with a smile.

 "Our First is right," he said lightly.  "You should leave the markings on.  For Feyndir."

 Ryneth blushed, then winced.  Starring into the distance, her jaw clenched, she held her stomach with one hand as it tightened beneath her tunic.  Freynlen waited for the contraction to ease before she spoke again.

 "Circle the camp," she repeated, "but don't wander off.  Oh, I nearly forgot -" she rooted through the bag on her belt, drawing out a long, thin piece of braided rope.  "Hold out your hands."

 Atharil looked away as Freylen bound them loosely together, his left wrist to Ryneth's right, in a ritual that was uncomfortably similar to part of the Dalish bonding ceremony.  "May Sylaise the Hearthkeeper, protector of children, watch over you," she said as she tucked the ends of the cord into their palms.  "She showed us how to heal with magic and with herbs, granted us fire, and taught us to weave rope.  We remember these gifts, and ask her to help guide this infant safely into the world."

 Ryneth nodded.  "And to bring Feyndir home, swiftly," she added.

 "He will be here in time to greet his child," Atharil assured her.  "The baby will not come for many hours yet."

 Freylen groaned.  "That's probably true, but it's not the most comforting thing to tell a woman in labor."  She patted Ryneth's arm.  "Ara seranna-ma, my sister.  I'll try not to leave you alone with him for too long."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of the rituals described in this chapter are canon. They're just my own imaginings. The nicknames and roles of the Creators, however, are accurate.


	37. Chapter 37

 "My arm is getting tired." 

 "That's because you're not meant to hold it out like that, lethallan."  Atharil glanced around.  The encampment was still visible through the trees, but they were giving it a wide enough berth to avoid attention.  He took her hand, easing the pressure on the rope for both of them.  "Better?"

 "Oh, yes.  This makes much more sense."  Ryneth started to laugh, then stopped as another contraction began.  As she endured it, Atharil felt her palm grow clammy in his own, her fingers tightening around his until he winced.

 "You don't have to bear this in silence, you know."  He spoke softly, as if the volume of his speech might somehow add to her discomfort.  "Childbirth is one of the rare things we Dalish don't try to turn into a test of fortitude.  It's difficult enough already."

 Ryneth didn't answer until the pain began to subside.  "I don't want to cry out," she managed finally, some of the color returning to her cheeks.  "It would be embarrassing for us both."

 "It would not."  It might have been, actually, but as soon as she said the words he knew he couldn't allow them to be true.  "My own mother had no partner present for her labor, you know.  Keeper Maeven solved the problem by assigning her a male clansman at random, and informing him that refusing the honor would provoke the wrath of Andruil.  Mamae told me that story many times as a da'len."  He smirked.  "Usually when I was being disobedient."

 Ryneth smiled.  "That does sound like Maeven.  It worked, though, didn't it?"

 Atharil nodded.  "Well enough, but imagine how awkward they must have felt.  You and I are close, at least.  You don't need to feel embarrassed.  About anything."

 "Thank you."  She sighed.  "At least now you'll be prepared when Elodie's time comes, I suppose."

 "Freylen said something similar."  He led her around a fallen tree, its whitened trunk so massive they could barely see over it.  "To be honest, though, I'm not sure what Elodie will expect of me.  City elves have their own ways."

 "If they're similar to humans, she'll only expect you to put in an appearance after the midwife has wrapped the baby in blankets and placed it in her arms."

 The double markings on Atharil's face contorted with his scowl.  "That's terrible.  It's a father's first responsibility to ease his child's passage into the world.  He should be there to guide -"  He cut off as Ryneth's hand squeezed his again, her face contorting in unspoken agony.

 "Lethallan...."  He turned to face her, his free hand hovering uncertainly over her arm.  "I am here."

 Suddenly she leaned into him, her forehead pressing so hard against his collarbone that the elf rocked back on his heels.  His chest muffled her moan, but it was there, soft and tinged with panic, a groan that ended in a whine.

 "It will soon pass, Ryneth."  His stray hand found the back of her head, stroking her hair, holding her to his heart as the cramp gripped her.  "Just breathe.  The pain will soon pass, my friend."  He gazed over her head, sucking in a quiet breath at the sight of an owl perched low in a nearby tree. The bird stared back at him, yellow eyes aglow in the half-dark of the forest.  "Everything is going to be just fine, lethallan." 

 

 "Hello, Freylen."  Tirsas folded his hands in his lap.  "How is Ryneth?"

 "How is she?"  His First paced before him, her hands clenched.  "You asked her to give up her child; how do you think she is?"

 The Keeper waved a hand.  "Her labor, I mean.  You have not assisted with many births, and never a shemlen's.  You will inform me if you require my help, I hope, however angry you may be."

 Freylen snorted.  "You've done enough.  This baby may be born before it's due, thanks to you, and without its father present.  I don't want you anywhere near my sister."

 "Ah.  Your sister.  She's your brother's wife, and their child will share your blood."  He motioned for Freylen to sit beside him, but she ignored him.  "Has it occurred to you that you might be too close to the situation to see it clearly?"

 "Or perhaps I see it more clearly for that reason."  She stopped and looked at him.  "Where is your heart, Tirsas?  Do you really think this is what Keeper Maeven would want?"

 The older elf shook his head.  "Maeven made a mistake, da'len.  You made a mistake.  I'm only trying to contain it."

 "How can you still say that, after everything Ryneth has done for this clan?"

 "Because it's not about earning a place."  The Keeper ran a weary hand through his hair.  "Clan Lutharra takes in city elves like Arinna and her mother, do we not?  Few of them have skills we can use, but we welcome them, anyway.  They don't know the Creators, they speak no elven, but we teach them.  Why?"

 Freylen crossed her arms.  "I'm not in the mood to play student."

 "Not even when you already know the answer?"  He sighed.  "Please sit down, da'len.  I cannot speak with you properly when you're looming over me."

 His First considered briefly, then rolled her eyes and knelt.  Her arms remained folded.

 "Ma serannas."  Tirsas cleared his throat and began again.  "I've honored your decision to accept Ryneth into this clan, despite my personal feelings, and over the protests of many of our clansmen."  He nodded at Freylen's look of surprise.  "They're hardly going to complain to Feyndir's sister, are they?  But I hear their concerns.  Some of them are petty and malicious, granted, but others have voiced legitimate fears.  They are afraid that one shemlen among us will lead to more; they fear their descendants will be choked out as the weeds choke the grain.  How would you answer them?"

 "I'd tell them to stop being afraid of an infant."

 Tirsas took a steadying breath.  "A child does not remain a child, da'len.  Such a flippant response is unworthy of a leader of the People."

 Freylen reddened, her jaw tightening.  For a while she said nothing, staring blankly ahead as her mind reached for a solution. 

 "Children don't reproduce," she said finally.  "A human da'len in our camp threatens no one."

 The Keeper nodded, thinking.  "That is true.  But as I said, children grow up.  Shemlen children become shemlen men and women in time."

 The First felt a knot in her chest.  "Not for many years.  Feyndir and Ryneth could still raise their child, and then maybe... later on...."

 "That might please the parents, yes," he conceded.  "But would it not be cruel to the child, in the long run?  To allow it to grow up running barefoot through the forests with elven children, speaking in our tongue and learning of the Creators at the feet of our elders, and then, when it's grown, to cast it into the shemlen world alone, a human without and a Dalish elf within?"

 "No, of course we can't do that."  Freylen uncrossed her arms and rubbed her temples.  She could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on, and quietly reached for the Fade to sooth it.  "But there must be another way, Tirsas.  I know we can find another path, if we try."

 The Keeper reached into a small wooden box beside him and sprinkled a handful of dried herbs into the fire.  "Then let us meditate on the question a while.  If we search together, perhaps a new answer will present itself."

 His First breathed a sigh of relief.  "Thank you, hahren."

 "Ma nuvenin, da'len."  The corners of his mouth turned up in a small smile.  "And ma serannas, as well.  I am not long in this role, and I sometimes forget that the People require my empathy as much as my logic."

 Freylen laid a hand on his.  "Remember the Vir Adahlen of our hunters, Keeper," she teased gently.  "Together we are stronger than the one.  You need not always bear your responsibilities alone."

 He looked at her, a growing admiration in his eyes.  "I will try to remember that," he said.  "Now, let us seek a new path for Ryneth and Feyndir's child."


	38. Chapter 38

 Feyndir stood on the halla's back as the creature neared Clan Lutharra's encampment, one hand gripping a twisting horn for balance.  The beast was winded but still running, and as it passed beneath a low-hanging branch he leapt, pulling himself up onto the lower limb of a gnarled oak with a grunt.

 A birdcall greeted him almost immediately, and he struggled to catch his breath and respond.  The guards must be answered, no matter his hurry.  An accidental arrow in the back was no less deadly.

 "Feyndir!"  He looked toward the sound, and saw the scout waving at him from atop a mossy boulder.  "There you are.  Your wife is looking for you, lethallin!"

 "I know.  I'm on my way."

 The younger elf shook his head, grinning.  "You'd better hurry, Papae."

 The word sent a thrill through him that was equal parts terror and joy.  Unable to speak, he nodded and climbed higher into the tree, finding where its limbs reached out to touch those of its neighbors.  Then he raced, light-footed, across the canopy, his bare toes curling around the swaying branches beneath him as though they were pebbles on a beach, his back bending to fit between small openings.  Twigs whipped his arms and face as he passed, but he hardly noticed.

 At the camp's edge Feyndir dropped to the ground, crouching to soften his landing.  He waved to the scouts stationed at the perimeter before hurrying to his tent, his heart in his throat.  When he pulled back the flap, it was empty.

 "She's with Atharil, brother."  Freylen came up behind him, looking tired and worried.  "They are walking yet, but I think not for much longer.  Her time is drawing close.  I'm relieved you're here."

 Feyndir's eyes flicked about, finally settling on the cloth-covered bowl resting on a log.  "The Keeper marked Atharil?  He is standing in my place?"  He felt a stab of jealousy at the thought.

 His sister sighed.  "The Keeper marked no one.  I am caring for Ryneth, and I chose Atharil.  Was there another man in camp you would have preferred, or should I have let her labor alone?"

 He could hear the exasperation in her voice, and the weariness.  "What's wrong?  Is she alright?"

 Freylen waved a hand.  "Yes, she's fine.  As fine as a woman in labor can be, anyway.  You can ask her yourself, soon."  She sat down heavily beside the bowl of halla's blood.

 "I will."  Feyndir looked anxiously toward the fringes of camp, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ryneth through the trees.  Dusk was approaching, however, and everything beyond the clearing appeared black from a distance.  "You should know, her brother insisted on following me home."

 The First's eyes flashed.  "What?"

 "Don't worry; he's with the hunters you sent.  They're going to keep an eye on him, and help him set up a campsite to the south."

 Freylen looked thoughtful.  "His name is Hendry, isn't it?  Ryneth said he doesn't like the Dalish."

 "He doesn't.  Didn't."  Feyndir shrugged helplessly.  "It's complicated?  But he's here, anyway.  He wants to speak with her - they didn't leave things on the best terms."

 "Well, he'll have to be patient.  She's a bit busy right now."  She picked up the bowl and uncovered it, stirring the blood with one finger.  "And so are you."

******

 Atharil saw him first, and began picking apart the knots that bound their arms together.

 "What are you doing?"  Her voice was weak with fatigue; she spoke into his neck.  "Rub my back."

 "Shhh."  He slid the rope free and slipped his hand out of hers, his palm damp with sweat.  "Someone has come to relieve me, lethallan."

 "What?"  She looked into his light eyes, hair plastered to her face.  "I don't want someone else."

 The hunter smiled and kissed her forehead.  "Are you sure?" he whispered, turning her toward her mate.  "Look."

 "Feyndir!"  She stepped away and into the scout's arms, collapsing against him in relief.

 "I'm sorry, vhenan.  I came as quickly as I could."  He looked down at the side of her face.  "Is that... are you wearing vallaslin, rabbit?  Let me see."

 She looked up at him, a wan smile on her face.  "Freylen said Mythal wouldn't mind."

 "No, I'd say she won't."  He chuckled, pleased.  "You look radiant."

 "I feel terrible."

 "I know, vhenan."  His smile faded.  "The time for walking is past, I think.  Let me bring you back to our tent, my love."

  
 Atharil followed the couple home, keeping his distance to allow them privacy, turning the bonding rope over in his hands.  Freylen met him outside their tent, a damp cloth at the ready.

 "For someone who didn't want this responsibility, you seem almost sorry to pass it off," she remarked as she wiped the lines of the All-Father's vallaslin from his face.  "You're practically pouting."

 "It's been a long day; it feels wrong not to see it through."  He studied her face.  "How did it go with Tirsas?"

 "Things will be alright, I think.  We found a compromise of sorts."  She patted his shoulder.  "You did well, Atharil.  You'll make a fine father one day."

 He glanced at her.  "One day?"

 "One day soon, maybe."  She dipped the cloth into a bucket and wrung it out, staining the water pink.  "If you can convince Elodie her child will be better off among heathen nomads, that is."

 "Better off than in a walled slum, waiting for the next purge?"  He scowled.  "The choice should be obvious."

 "If it were, this camp would be overflowing with city elves already."  She drew the cloth down the bridge of his nose, tapping the end playfully.  "Now hold still while I wipe the rest of this blood from your face, savage."

 Atharil grinned, reaching to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.  He let his fingertips run along its length.  "As you command me, First."

  
 She'd nearly finished when a sharp cry from inside the tent interrupted them.  Both elves stood, the bloodied cloth falling forgotten to the ground between them.

 "She's progressing quickly now.  I need to be with them."  Freylen looked suddenly pale.

 "What can I do?"  Atharil took her arm.  "Shall I fetch the Keeper?"

 "I... no."  She shook her head.  "She won't want to see him.  I can manage."

 "Alright.  But I could -"

 "No."  She frowned at him.  "Your role here is finished, Atharil.  Go and get some rest."

 He hesitated, glancing toward the tent's closed flap.  "What if she needs me?"

 "For what?"  Freylen took a step forward, searching his face.  "Are you trained in medicine, hunter?  Do you have magic?"

 Atharil reddened.  "No, of course not.  I only thought -"

 "Feyndir is with her, vhenan.  This is their journey now."  He hated the sympathy in her eyes.

 "I know that."  He turned away, avoiding her gaze.  "I know that."

 "Then go."  She reached out, her palm resting briefly against his blood-stained cheek.  "I'll take care of her, Atharil.  I promise."

******

 She nearly couldn't keep her word.  Ryneth's labor continued until the moon was high overhead, and she pushed until dew lay heavy on the grass and the campfires of Clan Lutharra burned low and guttered.  Grumbling elves, kept awake by the commotion, threw more wood to the flames and sat huddled and waiting, listening for the cries of an infant to pierce the deepening night.

 Yet when he finally arrived, slippery in his mother's blood, dark hair matted against a purplish forehead, there was no sound.  The baby hung limp in Freylen's arms, tiny arms dangling as she tried desperately to rub life into his unmoving chest.

 "Elgar'nan...."  Feyndir's plea was a whisper as he clutched Ryneth's hand, both of them transfixed by the sight of their motionless son.

 "Give me a moment."  Freylen focused her will, channelling magic through her body and into the lifeless newborn.  "Come on.  Come on!"

 "Oh, Maker."  Ryneth turned her head, and Feyndir pressed her fingers to his lips.  "He can't be...."

 It wasn't working.  Freylen could feel panic building within her, choking off her breath, threatening her connection to the Fade.

 "Get out, Feyndir."

 "What?"  He looked up, grief already settling in his eyes.  "My son -"

 "Get out!"  She must have looked as unhinged as she felt, because her brother didn't argue.  He slipped past her out of the tent, and she waited until she heard the flap close behind him to speak.

 "Swear you'll never tell him."  With her free hand, Freylen unsheathed the small knife strapped to her calf. 

 "What are you doing?"  Ryneth blinked, following the movement of the blade in the First's hand.  "Don't hurt him!"

 "Swear you won't tell Feyndir - that you won't tell anyone.  They wouldn't understand."

 Ryneth nodded, her confusion apparent.  That she was too exhausted to think straight was probably a good thing, Freylen decided.  She lay her nephew's body gently on a blanket, her stomach churning as his head lolled to one side.  Then she pulled back her sleeve.

 The blade slid cleanly across the elf's thin forearm, blood swelling at once along the track it left. Freylen turned her arm downward, watching as rivulets of red ran down to her palm, first gathering, then dripping from the tips of her fingers.  She closed her hand into a fist, smearing the warm liquid.  Then, shutting her eyes, she reached for the Fade.

 

 Feyndir stumbled out of the tent and into the chill night air, feeling as if he were living a nightmare.  Dimly, he registered a figure separating itself from a group of Dalish around a nearby fire, approaching with a worried expression.

 "Feyndir!  What news?"  It was Atharil.  Of course it was.

 He shook his head.  "It was a son," he said, his hands on his knees.  He didn't know whether he was was about to pass out or throw up.  "He walks with Falon'Din."

 "And Ryneth?"  The fear in the hunter's voice was palpable.

 "She's alright, I think.  But she's lost... we've lost our...."  Feyndir couldn't continue.  Vaguely, he felt Atharil supporting him, guiding him over to a log.

 "Sit, lethallin.  Breathe deeply."

 "I worried about his ears!"  The scout pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.  "I wanted him to look like me, and the Creators heard, and...."

 "The Creators do not answer our prayers, for good or ill."  Atharil spoke firmly.  "Didn't Maeven teach us that, as children?  You didn't do this, my friend."

 Feyndir took a shuddering breath.  "He was beautiful, Atharil.  He was perfect."

 The hunter nodded, blinking back tears of his own.  "And the People will not forget him.  His tree will join those of our ancestors, here in the land promised to us."  He put an arm about Feyndir's narrow shoulders.  "Ir abelas, my brother, that you should know this sorrow."

 They sat in silence for several minutes before the tent flap was thrown back, startling them out of their melancholy.  Freylen ducked out, looking unsteady on her feet, her eyes over-bright.  The bundle in her arms wriggled against her chest.

 "Clan Lutharra!" she called brightly to the tired elves, throwing a smile in her brother's direction.  "Come and greet the son of Feyndir and Ryneth!"

 


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is this chapter so long? I have no idea.

  
 "Are you ready?"

 Elodie took her shawl from a peg near the door and wrapped it loosely about her shoulders.  Her hand hovered over her servant's mask, uncertain.

 Atharil cocked his head.  "You're kidding, I hope."

 "I'm not meant to go anywhere without it; especially if I'm meeting people."

 He folded his arms.  "Since when do your employers count Dalish elves as people?"

 She laughed.  "That is true.  I don't suppose any of your... your clansmen, is it?  I don't suppose they'll mind a bare-faced Orlesian among them?"

 "Your ears are the right shape, so no.  They won't mind."  He opened the door with a frown, standing aside to let her pass.

 She gave him a suspicious look.  "Are you alright?  Have I said something wrong?"

 "No.  It's just been a difficult few days, that's all.  Ryneth had her child."

 "What?"  She locked the door behind them, slipping the key into a small embroidered bag at her hip.  "Why didn't you say so sooner?"

 He sighed.  "Perhaps I needed a break from thinking about it.  The baby nearly died, the Keeper wanted it given away -"  He stopped abruptly.  "You should tie your skirt up, if you don't want it ruined.  There are no clear trails to the encampment, and it is some distance."

 Elodie reached down, pulling the back hem of her dress through her legs.  "What did she have?"

 "A boy."  His eyes flicked over her interestedly as she tucked the fabric under her belt, creating a loose pair of trousers.  "They named him Hugo."

 "Hugo?"  She straightened, struggling to contain a sudden laugh.  "I'm sorry; it's a lovely name, really.  I was just expecting something a bit more elven, I think."

 "They chose a shemlen name on purpose.  It will make things easier for him when he leaves the clan."

 "Oh."  Her smile faded.  "I wondered whether your clan would accept him.  I guess not."

 "It's best for everyone this way."  He didn't sound entirely convinced.  "Every year, the child will go to stay with Ryneth's family for a time; a fortnight for every summer he's seen.  By the time he comes of age, he'll already be spending more than half the year among humans.  With luck, that will make the final transition less painful."

 Elodie let out a long breath.  "It will be hard for everyone, nonetheless."

 "It's a compromise.  No one is particularly happy about it, but everyone can see at least some sense in it."  He cast her a sidelong glance.  "Anyway, is it any harder than what I'm asking of you?"

 "I'm not sure."  She ran a hand over her stomach, uncertain whether the slight bulge she felt there was real or still only in her mind.  "Besides, I haven't promised you anything, yet."

 "I know."  He sounded as if she'd rebuked him.  "But you're still thinking about it?"

 "That's why I'm here."  Loose gravel slid under her feet, and she grabbed at his hand to steady herself.  "I suppose this entire scenario is something I should have considered before we... well.  It's a bit late now, in any case."

 Atharil was quiet for a moment.  "I understand if you regret what happened between us, Elodie, but I don't."

 She blushed.  "But doesn't this complicate things for you?  Between you and... and your lover?"

 "Freylen.  And yes, it does."  He squeezed her hand.  "But a child, Elodie!  I'm sorry, but I can't be anything but joyful at the thought."

 She felt his step quicken with his words, and smiled.  "You could have easily turned away from all this, you know.  Many men would have."  She looked about at the deepening forest around them.  "It isn't as if I'd be able to track you down."

 "Shemlen men might run.  Or city elves."  He paused, listening to something Elodie didn't hear, then continued.  "They find their treasure in chasing trinkets and jewels, big houses and fine clothing.  The wealth of the Dalish is in our blood."

 "Mmm."  Elodie was unconvinced.  "I don't know of any city elves that can boast of jewels and fancy clothes."

 "No?"  He snorted.  "Then what prize, exactly, does bowing and scraping to the humans earn you?"

 Elodie started at his words, blinking back sudden tears.  For a moment she could hear drunken laughter, feel the rough hands of the Chevalier beneath her skirts.  _Pretty little rabbit.  Hold still. ___

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 The hunter's pale eyes widened, and he inhaled sharply.  "Ir abelas; that was thoughtless.  Forgive me."

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 "It's alright, Atharil."  She tossed her head and was in the Graves again, the only sounds birdsong and her own footsteps.  Beside her, the Dalish somehow managed to walk without making any noise at all.  "City elves have our own type of fortitude, you know.  I'll manage."

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 Elodie could smell the camp before she saw it.  Startled, she drew a handkerchief from her bag and pressed it against her nose, shooting a questioning look at her companion.

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 "Sorry; we're near the halla pen.  Have you ever seen one up close before?"  He sounded hopeful, proud even, and she realized they hadn't approached from this direction by accident.

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 "Never."  She stifled a cough.  "They don't bite, do they?"

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 Atharil laughed.  "Not us, anyway."  He increased his pace, and soon Elodie could see the white deer up ahead, ears flicking back and forth as they grazed.  A few of them raised slender necks as the elves drew near, stepping toward the makeshift fence with curiosity in their large brown eyes.

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 "They are beautiful," Elodie conceded, swatting away a fly.  "Very nice."

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 The hunter reached into the pen and scratched one of the creatures between its twining antlers, leaning forward to press his forehead briefly to its own.  "Would you like to ride one?  This fellow would allow it, I think."

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 "What?"  She felt her heartbeat skip in surprise.  "No!  No, thank you.  I don't know how to ride, anyway."

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 Atharil's eyes narrowed.  "You've never been on a horse?  It's not that different."

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 "I haven't, actually.  I ride in carriages with Her Ladyship, or I walk.  She doesn't bring me when she goes riding."

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 "That's a pity.  Still, I think if you -"  He cut off suddenly, and Elodie turned in the direction of his gaze.  Another Dalish was approaching, a smile on her face and steel in her eyes.  She carried a staff loosely in one hand, a brilliant blue stone set into its gnarled end.  The jewel  dazzled in a stray shaft of sunlight.

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 Atharil nodded at the newcomer.  "Elodie," he said softly, his tone cautious, "meet Freylen, the First of Clan Lutharra.  Freylen, this is Elodie."

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 The Orlesian felt such a chill that she briefly thought the other woman had cast a spell.  "It's a pleasure to meet you," she managed, forcing herself into an awkward curtsy.  Maker, why hadn't he told her his lover was a mage?

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 The First eyed her coolly.  Chestnut hair, bound in an array of complicated plaits, fell forward as she tipped her head slightly, obscuring the scrolling tattoo that encircled one eye.  "Andaran atish'an, Elodie."

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 "I thought you were going to meet us later."  Atharil took a step forward, and Elodie retreated behind him instinctively.  "After I show her around."

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 Freylen lifted her chin.  "I changed my mind.  Do you have an objection, hunter?"

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 Elodie could see his jaw clench.  "Of course not, vhenan.  But there will be time to talk after she's seen the encampment.  As we discussed."

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 The First glared at him for a moment, then suddenly smiled even more brightly than before.  "Very well."  Her eyes blazed as she turned her attention back to Elodie.  "Ara seranna-ma; I did not intend to intrude on your visit, da'len.  I know Atharil is more than capable of keeping you entertained by himself."

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 Before either of them could respond, the girl turned on her heel and stalked off, a stray spark erupting from the tip of her staff as she struck it against the ground.  Atharil followed her with his eyes, worry creasing his brow.

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 Elodie took a steadying breath.  "She's... she's quite a force to be reckoned with, isn't she?  Maybe I should go now."

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 "No."  For all the concern on his face, his tone was harsh.  "She is behaving like a child.  Ignore her."

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 "Atharil, I -"

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 "Come."  He took her hand again, his voice softening.  "You can't leave without seeing Ryneth and the baby, at least.  She's been looking forward to your visit."

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 They left the halla and headed into the main camp, a meadow ringed in tall aravels whose red sails brushed the boughs of nearby trees.  Past them, tents of various sizes dotted the clearing.  Animal skins, stretched tight on racks, dried in the sunlight, and elderly Dalish sharpened blades and mended cloth around a number of small fires.  Some of them looked up, squinting, as Atharil led Elodie through their midst.

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 "Who is that, now?" called an old man, his vallaslin so faded with age that it resembled ashes smudged across his face.

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 "A city elf, hahren."

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 "Will she join us?"

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 Atharil smiled faintly.  "Not this one, I'm afraid."

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 The old man grunted.  "Better kill her, then, before she tells the magisters where we are."

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 "I will bear that in mind, hahren."  He bowed to the elderly elf and walked on, shaking his head discretely at Elodie.  "Don't mind him.  He spent his youth in the Marches, when the clan used to take in escaped Tevinter slaves.  Thinks he's still there, sometimes."

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 A leather ball rolled out from between two tents then, and the hunter stopped it with his foot.

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 "That's mine!"  A small boy, shirtless and sweating, threw himself against Atharil's leg.  "Give it back!"

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 "Harellan!"  Another child toppled the first, and to Elodie's astonishment the pair began wrestling viciously in the grass at her feet, oblivious to anyone but each other.  "It's my ball.  Dirthara-ma!"  He raised a fist, but the other boy threw a handful of dirt in his face and rolled away with a sneer.

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 Atharil sighed, grabbing the second child by the back of his tunic and yanking him to his feet.

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 "What is the ball made of, da'len?" he said calmly, the object of the children's disagreement still under his foot.

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 The youngster twisted in his grip.  "Leather," he grumbled, rolling his large eyes toward Elodie.  "Who's the flat-ear?"

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 Atharil gave him a shake.  "None of your business.  Try again."

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 "It's made of leather, _hahren _."  He slumped slightly in defeat.__

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 "And did you hunt the animal that provided that leather?"  He turned his disapproving gaze on the other child.  "Did you?"

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 "No, hahren."  They answered together, the shirtless child scuffing one foot against the grass.  Elodie had the distinct feeling it was not the first time the pair had heard whatever admonishment Atharil was about to deliver.

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 "That's right.  Nor did you tan the hide, or cut the pieces, or stitch it together.  Who did these things, I wonder?"

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 The boys looked at each other.  "The clan made the ball," the shirtless one said finally, sighing. He fingered one long ear nervously, bending its point forward until it touched his cheek.  "Everyone works together; everyone has a responsibility.  The ball belongs to the clan."  He was clearly reciting the words from memory.

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 Atharil released his prisoner and picked up the disputed toy.  "Ma serannas."

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 "Can we have it back, now?"

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 "No."  He stepped away from the pair and Elodie followed, offering them a sympathetic glance over her shoulder.  "Ask me tomorrow.  Perhaps I will be done taking my turn with our ball by then."

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 Elodie shot him a sideways look as the children slunk away.  "Is everything in your clan shared communally?"

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 "Not everything, no.  But the da'len need to learn selflessness.  They must be made to understand their duty to the clan, and the fact that our lives are all dependent on one another.  So, they are not allowed personal possessions."

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 "Hmm."  She wrapped her shawl more tightly about her.  "And if I leave our child a memento?  Will you force her to share it with her peers?"

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 Atharil frowned.  "Of course not.  That's a different matter entirely."  He studied her.  "I'm afraid your first impressions of the Dalish are not as positive as I'd hoped."

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 Elodie looked around her, hesitant to answer.  "Let's go and see Ryneth now."

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 The aravel smelled of new wood and fresh lacquer, its crimson sails bright and unweathered.  From the outside, it appeared much like Clan Lutharra's other landships, but within it resembled a small cabin in the Hinterlands.  Elodie breathed a sigh of relief as soon as she stepped inside, stooping slightly under the low ceiling.  It was still a long way from Orlesian splendor, but it resembled something civilized, at least.

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 "The curtains aren't finished yet," Ryneth apologized, waving her free hand toward the single, round window.  She was seated cross-legged on a bed, a crisp patchwork quilt beneath her.  Animal pelts peeked out around the edges of the blanket, Dalish necessities tucked under a human veneer. 

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 "It's a beautiful home, Ryneth."  Elodie looked down at the dark-haired baby at her friend's breast, trying not to show her surprise at the new mother's openness.  "And your son is even lovelier."

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 "Thank you."  She stroked the back of Hugo's head, and one tiny hand opened in response.  "And I'm sorry if this is awkward.  Dalish women don't feel embarrassed about feeding their children, so I'm trying...."

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 Elodie snorted, dropping to her knees in order to get a better look at the little one.  "You're a human girl trying to raise a baby in the middle of a Dalish clan.  You don't need more challenges.  Cover yourself if it makes you more comfortable, and Maker take anyone who disapproves."

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 Ryneth brightened.  "What do you think, Atharil?  Would it be silly of me?"

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 The hunter fixed his gaze on a carved mabari.  "It's not my place to tell you what to do with your body, lethallan."

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 Elodie rolled her eyes.  "If you Dalish are so accustomed to this sort of thing, why are you staring at the wall?"

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 Atharil hesitated, clearing his throat.  "I'm used to seeing elven women.  There are... differences."  He glanced toward the aravel's rounded door.  "Do you mind if I step out for a while, Ryneth?"

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 She blushed, holding the infant closer to her chest.  "Ara seranna-ma -"

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 "No."  He brought his eyes to meet hers at last.  "It isn't that, truly.  We saw Freylen on our way here; she seemed upset.  I think I should check on her."

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 Elodie watched as Ryneth's eyes widened slightly.  "Of course, lethallin.  It will give Elodie and I a chance to catch up."  She smiled, but her expression resembled the First's fierce grin too much to be reassuring.  It was a false cheerfulness, a mask to cover her unease.  Orlesian servants knew all about masks, and how to see behind them.

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 "How afraid should I be?" Elodie asked bluntly, her suspicions confirmed by the look the others exchanged.

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 "Not at all."  Ryneth laid a hand on her shoulder.  "Right, Atharil?"

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 The hunter nodded.  "Her anger is directed at me, not you.  I will deal with it."  His eyes flashed, and Elodie realized Freylen wasn't the only one whose temper had been riled.

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 "Right," she agreed, joining in their show of feigned good humor.  "I'll just wait here, then, and enjoy the company of this little man for a bit."  She tickled one of Hugo's wrinkled pink feet, and laughed when the baby drew it back into his blanket.

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 "Thank you."  He left at once, ducking his head to fit the door's low frame.  Ryneth looked at Elodie and sighed.

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 "They're going to have a fight, I'm afraid," the Orlesian ventured.

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 "Probably.  And by Elgar'nan, I'm not pulling another dagger out of his shoulder."

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 Elodie raised an eyebrow.  "Freylen stabbed him?"

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 "Hmm?"  Ryneth was watching Hugo's face.  "No, that was... someone else.  It's a long story."

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 The elf cocked her head, interested.  "I'm all ears."

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I end on a lame elf joke? Yes, I did.


	40. Chapter 40

 "Did I see her?"  The sentry snorted, pointing to a scorch mark on the ground.  "I asked where she was going - that was her response."  He crossed his arms.  "It's my job to ask, you know."

 Atharil frowned.  "Did you see which way she went?"

 "She stomped off into the forest, that's all I can tell you."  He shook his head.  "As soon as I'm relieved, I'm going straight to the Keeper.  I don't care if she is his First."

 "Don't do that."  Atharil put a hand on the younger elf's arm.  "Keep it to yourself, and I'll make sure a ram's hide finds its way to your tent."

 "I had to jump out of the way."

 "A hide, and two nugs."

 "Done."  He looked so smug that Atharil was almost sorry Freylen's spell hadn't hit him.  "She should be easy enough to track, at least.  The way she stormed out of camp, she'll have left footprints and broken branches all along her path."

 Atharil nodded his agreement, his trained eyes already pinpointing the spot where she'd entered the woods.  He slipped into the cool shade of the forest after her, moving slowly at first, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the dimness.  Then, when he could see properly and he'd left the sentry far behind, he quickened his pace to a jog.

 She'd gone far since they'd parted.  The hunter followed her trail as it meandered through the Graves, finding slopes where her feet had slid in mud and hills she'd climbed by gripping onto saplings, their tender branches stripped by her hands.  Twice she'd encountered shallow creeks, each time wading downstream in the water before completing the crossing.  She'd known he would follow.  She was trying to throw him.

 Finally he took to the trees, climbing high in hopes of spotting her in the distance.  From the vantage, he could make out elven ruins nearby; a pavilion of sorts with a great stone wolf reclining at its center.  Astride the wolf's back, one leg dangling on either side and her cheek resting against its neck, was Freylen.

 Anger surged in Atharil anew as he watched her swinging her legs languidly, her eyes staring blankly off into a middle distance.  Did she even realize the terrible impression she'd made on Elodie?  Did she care?  He took a deep breath and let it out, waiting as his heartbeat slowed and his hands stopped shaking.  She was within sight; it would be foolish to lose her to an outburst now.

 

 Atharil circled the pavilion, approaching from behind.  He didn't want Freylen to know he was close until the last moment, until it was too late to flee.  He didn't have time to -

 "Ooof."  He staggered backwards and tripped over a root, landing on his backside in the grass.

 "I knew it."  Freylen sat up with a scowl.  "What do you want?"

 Atharil shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears.  Cautiously, he crept forward until his outstretched hand felt the vibrations of her magic. 

 "A barrier?  Seriously?"

 "I might have dropped it, if only I'd known you were there."  She slid off the wolf's back and stood facing him.  The spell remained in place.  "Why did you follow me?"

 He shook his head.  "What's going on, Freylen?  We both agreed that I would introduce you to Elodie in your tent, privately, after she had a chance to see the camp.  Instead, you pounced on her as soon as we arrived!"

 Freylen's upper lip curled, and her magic crackled in response.  "Did I get in your way, hunter?  Should I apologize for not waiting quietly while you paraded your other lover amongst our people?"

 "My other lover?"  He threw his hands up.  "So you're jealous - is that what this is?  Vhenan, you know I take no one to my tent but you."

 "But you did bed her, and the proof of it will only grow more obvious with time."

 Atharil kicked at the barrier in frustration, sending a shock up his leg.  "Fenedhis!  It happened once, and it's over, and you damned well know it!"

 "Is it?"  She turned away, as though she couldn't speak her mind while looking at him.  "She's certainly beautiful, for a flat-ear.  I always thought you were too handsome for me; it's why I decided to trick you into pursuing me in the Hunt."

 "Freylen, you're being ridiculous."  He felt the spell weakening, and readied himself.

 "You never even saw me before that day."

 He snorted.  "I saw a child, which is what you were.  I thought you became an adult when you received your vallaslin, but maybe I was mistaken."

 She whirled around, tears in her eyes.  "Is it my fault if I'm younger than you?  I'm not ready to give you a child, Atharil!"

 "What?"  The barrier dissipated and he reached for her, but she was gone.  He blinked, and she reappeared several feet away.  "I've never asked that of you.  Not once."

 "You don't have to.  I saw the way you looked at Ryneth, the tenderness in your gaze.  The longing."  She took a shuddering breath.  "You want a da'len of your own, and Elodie is going to give you one.  Why shouldn't you love her for that?"

 "The child may not even be mine, you know."  He darted forward, but she Fade-stepped beyond his reach once again.  "Stop doing that!"

 A half-smile played on her lips even as a tear worked its way down her cheek.  "But if it is?"

 "If it is, then I hope we can raise it together, Freylen.  You know that already."  He shook his head.  "But we're not going to get the chance if you keep acting like this!"

 "Like what?"  Her chin jutted out, defiant. 

 "Like... like an envious, insecure little girl!"

 Freylen was silent for a moment.  In the pause, Atharil almost thought he could hear his words reverberating through the quiet forest, and cringed inwardly.

 "Freylen... vhenan, I -"

 "Go to the mother of your child, Atharil."  Her words were like ice.  "I won't trouble either of you, you have my word."  She turned, moving away in a quick succession of blurs and flashes.

 "Fenedhis."  Atharil sprinted after her.

 

 Freylen had grown stronger in her magic since the last time the hunter had seen it on display.  The First kept ahead of him with seemingly little effort, changing direction amongst the undergrowth until Atharil was forced to climb a tree for a better vantage.  Even so, he nearly lost track of her, and had to race through the canopy at such a speed that he barely noted where he stepped.  There was no time to choose the safer routes - when the gaps between trees widened, he jumped them blindly, his eyes never leaving the shimmering figure that phased in and out of reality below him.

 Eventually, as he'd known would happen, her mana waned.  Thorns pulled at her clothes - her best dress, no doubt worn to intimidate the woman she viewed as her rival - and he heard her labored breathing as she had to rely on her own physical strength.  He closed in, preparing to drop behind her.

 "Nnggh!"  She whirled, stamping her staff against the ground.  A violet light flashed, and the branch Atharil was standing on cracked behind him.  He fell, rolling as he hit the forest floor, a bolt of pain shooting through the shoulder by which Feyndir had once pinned him to a tree.  He stumbled to his feet, snarling, and brushed dead leaves and dirt from his tunic.  Freylen ran on, and sighing, he followed once again.

 A heavy, unnatural snow began to fall then, dusting the ground over which they ran.  More magic; was there any end to her ability to conjure? 

 "All you're doing is leaving me a trail to follow!" he called, watching as she cast footprints in the fresh snowfall.  She stopped and turned, the jewel atop her staff glowing briefly as she pointed it at him.  "Hey, wait!"

 A thin sheet of ice enveloped Atharil's legs and feet, freezing him literally in his tracks.  Still in motion, his upper body lurched forward until his hands pressed against the ground in front of him.  Straightening, he began to beat at the covering with his fists, trying to break it, cursing as the mage darted away ahead of him.  She climbed a small rise, her bare feet scrambling in gravel, and disappeared.

 "I swear by Andruil," he muttered, landing a particularly hard punch that cracked the coating at last, "when I catch her...."

 

 Freylen's throat burned with every breath, her legs ached with every step.  It felt perversely good to be so exhausted, to struggle until all the fight and all the rage was seared out of her.  It felt even better to cast spells at Atharil.

 She could hear him gaining on her yet again, his breath ragged.  The hunter's pursuit was relentless despite all her efforts, and that also pleased her, though she would never admit it.  She wanted to watch him fight for her; she needed to test his determination and desire and find that it matched her own.  Surpassed her own.  If he would have her, let him take her.

 Freylen felt herself slowing, and knew that her pursuer would not.  If it killed him, he would overtake her.  Desperate, she wheeled about, raising her arm.  Atharil caught her wrist in his hand, the fire still dancing upon her open palm.  He stared at it, disbelief in his wide blue eyes, the light of the flame reflecting on the mottled scar that ran down one side of his face.  A scar left by a fireball.  She closed her fist, and the spell dissipated.

 "I love you, Freylen."  His fingers were digging into her, his voice rough.  "If you don't want to speak to Elodie, you don't have to.  If you don't want to be a mother, you don't have to do that, either.  But I will not allow you to sabotage my chance to be a father."

 She tried to yank her arm away.  "I don't want to lose you to a flat-ear."

 "You never will."

 "You called me an insecure little girl."  She pulled again, and her wrist slipped from his grasp.

 "You behaved like one."  His eyes blazed.

 "I did not!"  She shoved him, both hands pushing hard against his collarbone, and he stepped back.  "I want to support you, Ahtaril, but you brought another woman to our _home _.  You humiliated me in front of our entire clan!"__

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____

 She spun on her heel, meaning to walk away again, but he caught her by the arm.  "I had no choice.  She wanted to see where our child would be raised, and she has that right.  I thought we agreed on that."

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 "When it was an idea, yes."  Freylen's eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them back angrily, glad that her back was to him.  "When she was actually there, and I had to look at her... it was harder than I expected."  She twisted in his grip.  "Just leave me alone!"

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 He threw her casually against a tree, instead, knocking the wind from her lungs.  "You don't want me to go."

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____

 "I do."  She scowled, looking deep into his pale blue eyes.  They were the color of a winter sky, of frozen breath and icicles.  Heat shouldn't have been able to exist in eyes like that, but somehow there it was, swirling just below the surface.

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____

 "Then say it again," he whispered, one hand closing around her throat.  He forced her chin up until their eyes met.  "Tell me to go, vhenan."

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 Freylen glared at him, her heart hammering against her ribcage.  She wanted to punch him, to kick him, to throw spells at his stupid, lovely face until he begged her to stop.  And she desperately, desperately wanted him to stay.  "Dread Wolf take you, hunter."

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 He kissed her hard, forcing her mouth open beneath his own.  One callused hand remained at her jaw, pressing the back of her head into the rough bark; the other worked its way beneath her skirts, searching for smallclothes to remove.  She wasn't wearing any.

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 "If you think we're having sex now -" she began when he came up for air, panting.

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 "Shut up."  He found her staff and pried it from her fingers, casting it aside in the long grass.  Then he stepped back just long enough to unbuckle his own harness, letting his bow and quiver join her weapon on the ground. 

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 "Your dick is always in charge, isn't it?  That's how we ended up in this mess."  She leaned forward and he forced her back again, wedging one muscled thigh between her legs as he worked the laces of his pants.

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 "We ended up in this mess because you were afraid to admit you love me."  He looked up at her with a snarl.  "Say you don't want me, she-elf."

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 She bit her lip, her hips grinding against his leg of their own accord.

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 He grunted.  "I'll take that as a 'please fuck me, Atharil', then."

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 "Smug bastard."  She wrapped her arms around him and he covered her neck in kisses, so sharply insistent that she couldn't tell whether he was sucking or biting.  And all the while, his hands worked her skirt higher.

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 "Up against a tree," she gasped, her eyes closed.  "How romantic."

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 He chuckled against her throat.  "No?  Try this, then."

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 "Atharil!"  The ground was mossy and covered in knee-high ferns.  It didn't hurt when he threw her down, except for her pride.  Creators, she'd forgotten how strong he was.

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 "Better?  I know you like it in the dirt."  He knelt between her legs, and she pushed the side of his face away with her foot.

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 "Not in my best dress, I don't!"  She scooted backwards across the forest floor.

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 "This thing?"  He grabbed her by one ankle.  "You look better in your usual clothes.  I do enjoy the braids, though; it's a pity you didn't wear them for my benefit."

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 "I wore them to honor a visitor."  She rolled onto her stomach, grimacing as her foot twisted painfully in his grasp.

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 Atharil laughed.  "You wore them to shock her.  To awe the city elf with your mystical Dalish ways.  Admit it."

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 "I did not."  She tried to kick her leg free, but he only held tighter.

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 "You're like a nug in a snare, vhenan."  The hunter stroked her captive leg with his free hand, fingertips brushing the back of her knee.  "Don't think I won't take you up the ass if you stay like that."

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 She flipped onto her back at once.  "You wouldn't."

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 "I'd be careful, and you'd like it.  I promise."  One side of his mouth turned up in a smile.

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 Freylen blinked.  "Creators, Atharil.  Anything else I should know about you?"

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 He shrugged, pulling her foot to his mouth.  "That I'm yours.  Completely."

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 "Truly?  You don't have any feelings for Elodie?  You... you're certain?"  She swallowed.  His tongue was moving between her toes; suddenly, it was hard to think clearly.  "Nor... nor Ryneth?"

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 A hesitation, so slight she might have imagined it.  "I am yours, Freylen."  He dropped her foot and kissed his way up the inside of her leg, nudging her skirt along with the flat of his nose.  "Only yours, as long as we live." 

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 It was an oddly serious thing to say, but now he was atop her and she didn't care.  She hooked her legs around his thighs, drawing him in, her back arching against his chest.  He didn't keep her waiting.

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 "Say you're mine, Freylen."  His face inches from hers, his white-blond hair falling in sheets around her face.  His cock throbbing inside her. 

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 "Mmmm."  She dug her fingernails into his tunic, wishing they were both naked.  His heat rose through the coarse layers, the muscles of his back rolling beneath the fabric.

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 "Freylen."  She couldn't concentrate on his words.  "Freylen, bond with me."

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 "What?"  Her legs snapped hard against him.  "What was that?"

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 He stopped, then thrust again, playful.  "Bond with me.  No more chasing."

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 She stared up at him, trying to see whether he was serious.  "You're asking me to marry you _while we're fucking _?"__

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 "Of course not.  Marrying is for shems."  He began to move in her again; she could feel herself already building toward climax.  "What is your answer?"

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 "I...mmmpf."  She shook her head, trying to clear it.  "Not... not yet.  Not while another woman might be carrying your child.  I couldn't."

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 "After?"  Atharil read her body and increased his pace. 

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 "After." She nodded dumbly.  "After... oh gods, Atharil.  Like that."

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 "Is that a 'yes', my heart?"  His voice was a growl in her ear, its vibration alone enough to send her over the edge.

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 "Uhhhh. Yes, Atharil!" Freylen held to him with all the strength left in her weary body, feeling the hunter shudder as he joined her in release.  "Yes!"

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	41. Chapter 41

 "Don't hold him like that.  You have to support his head."

 Hendry rolled his eyes, but adjusted the infant in his arms.  "Your daddy worries too much.  Tell daddy you're a big, strong human, not a delicate little elf."

 Feyndir shot him a disapproving glance.  "Papae."

 "What?"

 "Papae, not daddy."  He wrapped an arm around Ryneth's shoulders.  "Mamae and Papae."

 "Oh, for... this kid is going to be so confused."

 Elodie stifled a laugh.  "It's nice, I think."  She plucked wildflowers as they walked, dropping them into her upturned apron.

 Hendry studied her a moment.  "Thank you again for this.  I don't think my back could have taken one more night sleeping on the ground."

 Feyndir snorted.  "Big, strong human, indeed."

 "I'm not much for roughing it, either," Elodie admitted.  "And, this will give you and Ryneth a chance to catch up.  On neutral ground, as it were."

 "Oh."  Hendry scratched at his neck with his free hand.  "She told you about our... disagreement, did she?"

 The Orlesian cast him a sidelong look.  "We discussed a lot of things.  There was plenty of time when Atharil didn't return."

 Ryneth patted Molly's neck, leading the old mare carefully over a rotted log.  "I hope he's all right."

 "I'm sure he's fine," Feyndir grumbled.  "My sister is far too taken with Atharil to seriously hurt him.  In all likelihood."

 Elodie started.  "Freylen is your -"

 "My little sister, yes."  He fixed her with a cold look.  "I've already made my displeasure with your situation known to Atharil, I promise you."

 "What situation is that?"  Hendry looked from one of them to the other, eyes wide.  "What am I missing?"

 Ryneth sighed.  "Leave it, Hendry.  It doesn't concern you."

 Elodie pointed at the scout.  "It was you who stabbed him, wasn't it?"

 "Rabbit?  You told her that?"  Feyndir looked betrayed.

 "Rabbit?"  Hendry blinked in confusion, then grinned wickedly.  "That's what you call her?  That's rich, elf."

 "Hendry...." Ryneth pinched the bridge of her nose.  "Please just shut up.  Please."

 Hendry opened his mouth to reply, but Feyndir held up a hand.  "Someone's approaching."

  
   
 "There's no sense in going quiet now," Atharil called, appearing over a small rise.  "We've been following the sounds of your collective grousing for the better part of a mile."  He reached behind him, helping Freylen up the hill.  "A scout should know better, lethallin; this forest holds all kinds of dangers."

 Feyndir's eyes flicked over the pair's torn and dirtied clothing.  "You look as though you've already encountered several of them.  " 

 Freylen attempted to smooth the front of her dress, a faint smirk on her lips.  "Maybe one."

 "Or two."  Atharil rolled his shoulder, wincing at her.  "That branch was higher than you realize."  He noticed Hendry then, and straightened at once.  "Who is this?"

 "He's my brother, Atharil."  Ryneth took Hugo from Hendry, seeing that the hunter was already reaching for an arrow.  "He's been staying in the south meadow, remember?"

 The elf's eyes narrowed.  "Hendry, isn't it?  We've met before, though I wouldn't expect you to recognize me."  He took his hand from his quiver and stepped toward the human.

 "Have we?"  Hendry looked nervous suddenly, and Ryneth didn't blame him.  In his dishevelled state, Atharil looked even wilder than usual.  He'd cocked his head to the side the way he did when he spotted game, the streaks of dirt on his face highlighting his rough pink scar and misshapen ear.

 "You were incoherent with pain.  Feyndir and I carried you into a cave after you fell trying to attack our clan."

 Hendry glanced at Ryneth helplessly.  "I recall the night, though not your face.  I... I suppose I owe you thanks for -"

 Atharil's punch landed just beneath his right eye.  Hendry's head snapped back, and the rest of his body followed, landing with a dull thud in the long grass.  Elodie and Ryneth gasped in unison, but Feyndir appeared unmoved.  Freylen rolled her eyes.

 They all waited then; when Hendry regained consciousness a few moments later, he found the Dalish hunter still standing over him.  He sat up quickly, shirking away.  "What was that for?  Your clan won that battle!"

 "I know."  Atharil offered him a hand up.  "That was for Ryneth, shem.  Now you're even."

  
   
 "I suppose you want to slug me, too?"  Hendry was still pouting as the group drew near to the Orlesian mansion.  He touched the purplish swelling under his eye gingerly, wincing.

 Feyndir smiled.  "You're family; it wouldn't be right."

 "Ah, but you're glad your crazy pal did it, aren't you?" 

 "Maybe a little."  He lowered his voice.  "Behave yourself around Atharil tonight, alright?  His tolerance for humans is much lower than mine."

 "To be fair, though, yours is pretty high."

 "I'm serious, Hendry.  I promised Sean I'd look out for you, but you need to watch your tongue.  Unless you want to go home without it."

 The young man scowled.  "Why did he and your sister come with us, then?  Why not return to the encampment?"

 "It's complicated."

 "Something to do with the 'situation' with Elodie?  It must be pretty serious if you knifed your own clansman over it.  I assume the Dalish don't look kindly on that sort of thing."

 Feyndir groaned.  "Have you ever spent the night in a mansion, Hendry?"

 "You're trying to change the subject.  And no, I haven't.  You know Ryneth and I are just country folk from the Marches."

 The scout nodded.  "Unsurprisingly, neither have I.  So let's all try to relax and enjoy the evening, shall we?  I think Ryneth may even forgive you now that you're sporting that lovely shiner.  Atharil has probably done you a favor."

 

 "Something's wrong."  Elodie pointed to the house's front gate, standing slightly ajar.

 Atharil nodded.  "We locked that."  He glanced at Feyndir.  "Someone's been here."

 The scout inspected the gate, and the ground around it.  "The lock's been picked.  Only one set of footprints."  He took his bow from his back and turned to Freylen.  "Keep the others safe; Atharil and I will make sure the intruder has gone."

 "I can help."  Hendry drew his sword, and the Dalish looked at one another.

 "It is only one person, little brother.  We can manage."  Feyndir motioned to Atharil, and the two of them slipped through the small opening and were gone before the boy could protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to remove the baby from Hendry's arms before he gets punched. ;)


	42. Chapter 42

 Feyndir inhaled sharply as they passed through the front door of the massive Orlesian summer house.  He'd considered himself somewhat worldly ever since his journey to Denerim, but nothing he'd seen in Ferelden's sprawling capital city had looked remotely like this.  The room was cavernous, with cold marble floors and golden statues gleaming from every side, heavy velvet curtains drawn back to let in filtered sunlight through stained-glass windows.  There was movement to his left and he jumped back, drawing his bow.

 "It's only a mirror," Atharil hissed.  "Mind yourself; they're all over the place."

 Feyndir stared at the creature within the reflective glass, its eyes wide as it pointed an arrow straight back at him.  Its dark hair was lank, its cheeks hollow, its clothing simple and rough.  Surrounded by opulence, he looked like an animal.  A frightened rabbit.  He felt a hand on his shoulder.

 "I know, lethallin.  Don't let it get to you."  Atharil cocked his head.  "I hear something.  This way."

 Feyndir forced his gaze away from the mirror and followed his clansman through a series of doors leading into an enormous kitchen.  There the hunter stopped, pointing toward a final, closed door.  Feyndir raised his bow again, and Atharil kicked it in.

   
 "Ahhh!"  Half-chewed bread fell from the man's mouth as he scrambled to his feet, dropping the remainder of the loaf.  "Sweet Andraste!  More Dalish!"

 Feyndir frowned.  "No, the same Dalish.  I've seen you before."  Atharil looked at his clansman, a question in his pale eyes.  "I encountered this man and his associates a few days ago, when I was traveling with Hendry.  He's a Freeman."

 The man shook his head vigorously.  "No, I'm not.  Not anymore.  I don't want any trouble; I just wanted something to eat.  Maker, I'm so hungry...."  He began to tremble all over, and a dark patch appeared on the front of his trousers.  The urine ran down his leg and dripped onto the larder's tiled floor.  Atharil wrinkled his nose.

 "Do it, Feyndir."

 Feyndir looked down the shaft of his arrow at the man's pounding chest.  "I think he's unarmed.  Maybe he's telling the truth."

 "I am!"  The man was crying now, tears sliding down his pock-marked cheeks to settle in his scraggly beard.  "I swear it.  Just let me go, and you'll never see me again.  You can have this whole place to yourselves, for your clan!"

 Feyndir loosed the arrow.  The man's eyes widened, his mouth opening in shock. 

 "Wrong choice of words, you poor bastard."  He watched with Atharil as the intruder collapsed over the remains of his stolen bread, the light swiftly fading from his eyes.  "We can't risk you telling anyone there are Dalish about, can we?"

 They dragged the body out into the garden, and Atharil went to fetch a rope from the barn where he'd once trimmed Lukas's ears.

 "It's safe now," Feyndir called to the others, who were still waiting just outside the gate.  "The intruder is dead."

 Freylen came forward first, inspecting the corpse with a veneer of indifference Feyndir knew she didn't feel.  "Good shot, brother."

 He snorted.  "He was only trying to find food.  Didn't even put up a fight."

 Hendry looked over Freylen's shoulder and paled.  "I thought you killed bad men.  Since when is being hungry a crime?"

 "It's not."  Feyndir looked at Elodie.  "He would have told others he saw Dalish here.  Eventually, someone would have come looking to make trouble for us, and they'd have found you, instead."

 The city elf nodded, crossing her arms tightly.  "I understand.  And... and thank you."

 Ryneth shuddered.  "It's lucky you were out today, Elodie."  She bounced Hugo gently; the baby was beginning to fuss with hunger.

 "Why don't the rest of you go inside and get settled?" the scout suggested.  "Atharil and I will finish up here."

 Freylen caught his meaning at once.  "You're not going to burn the body, are you?"

 "No."  Feyndir closed the man's eyes gently.  "We will let him serve as a warning to others.  Hopefully, the sight of him will discourage any other scavengers from trying their luck here."

 "I think I'm going to be sick."  Hendry didn't look as though the words were idle.  Ryneth patted his shoulder.

 "Come inside.  Feyndir's right; we don't need to see this."  She and Elodie moved toward the kitchen entrance, and Hendry followed them after a moment's hesitation.

 "I'm staying."  Freylen stuck her chin out as if expecting resistance, but Feyndir only nodded and unsheathed the dagger on his thigh.

 "You are our First," he acknowledged.  "As much as I would like to shield you from such things, sister, a leader of the People can't be afraid to get her hands dirty."  He offered her the blade.  "We'll string him up, you open his belly."


	43. Chapter 43

 "So... sister."  They were alone in the library, Elodie having shown them in and discretely excused herself.

 "Hendry."  Ryneth pulled the dustcloth off an overstuffed chair and sat down, unfastening her shirt. 

 "Are you... how are you?  Are you all right?"  He pretended to study the spines of the books as she put Hugo to her breast, but she wasn't fooled.  She knew he couldn't read the Orlesian titles any more than she could.

 "Shouldn't I be asking you that?  How's your eye?"

 "Honestly?  It feels like your little elf friend cracked my cheekbone.  He's stronger than he looks."   

 Ryneth chuckled.  "Most Dalish are, Hendry.  How is our father?"

 Hendry picked a book off the shelf.  "He's good.  He hated leaving Drayton, even after everything that happened, but he's settling in now.  The farm is doing well, and he's happy to be close to his daughter.  Even if she doesn't come around as often as he'd hoped."  She didn't miss the note of disapproval in his voice.

 "I'll be around more in the years to come."  Ryneth stroked the baby's dark hair, frowning.  "At least until Hugo is old enough to make his visits without me." 

 Hendry cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his words were rushed but emphatic.  "You know, you can stay with us as long as you like, Ryneth.  You could even stay forever, if you wanted.  If you... if you change your mind about all this."

 She felt her eyes blurring with unexpected tears of homesickness at his offer.  "Thank you, but I'm not going to change my mind, brother.  My home is with Feyndir now; his people are my people."

 He ran a finger over the book's embossed cover.  "You could bring him, too, I guess.  I mean, it'd be hard to explain to the neighbors, but -"

 "Hendry, stop."  She shook her head.  "I'm never coming home.  Not to stay."

 "Are you sure?"  He slotted the book back into place and turned to her.  "Look at you - you're barefoot, and you're dirty, and you're far too thin for a woman who's just given birth.  You need to eat more than an elf does, you know.  Is Feyndir aware of that?"

 Ryneth stood up, a trace of a smile on her lips.  "Thank you for worrying, but it's not necessary."

 "I'm sorry, Ryneth."  He met her gaze, and she could see the pain in his eyes.  "I shouldn't have reacted the way I did when I found out about you two.  I was angry at Feyndir's clan, and shocked, and... and I drove you away."

 "Is that what you think?"  She placed a hand on his arm.  "Hendry, it's not your fault I left.  It had nothing to do with you."

 "Are you sure?  I keep thinking that if I'd been more accepting, if I'd listened -"

 "It would have changed nothing."  She sighed.  "I'm happy with my life, brother.  Can't you be happy for me?"

 He nodded.  "All right.  If you're sure...."

 "I am."  She wrapped her free arm around him.  "Ma serannas, Hendry."

 "Okay, then."  He returned the embrace awkwardly, patting her on the back as baby Hugo wiggled between them.  Then he sniffed her, wrinkling his nose.  "Maker... you even smell Dalish.  When's the last time you had a proper bath?"

 

 In the kitchen, Elodie made herself a cup of tea with trembling hands.  She tried to avoid looking into the larder, where the half-eaten loaf of bread still rested in the middle of the floor.  She wasn't sure what frightened her more - the idea that someone had broken in, or the ease with which Atharil and his friend had dispatched the man.  Now, the Dalish were busy hanging his body from a tree in the courtyard, where she'd have to see it every time she ventured outside.  The very idea of it was gruesome.

 They weren't long at it.  Atharil and Feyndir entered first, the latter looking away as he stepped hesitantly across the threshold.  Freylen followed them, her face blood-spattered and pale, her hands stained red.  Elodie directed her to a basin and a pitcher of water, and she went towards it without speaking.

 "It's done."  Atharil sat down heavily at the table, casting a worried glance in Freylen's direction.  "No one will be able to see the body unless they're inside the front gate, in which case they are already up to no good.  It should be enough to keep most people from trying to enter the house."

 "Thank you, Atharil."  She nodded to his companion, still standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor.  "And you as well, Feyndir.  I'm sorry your welcome here was disturbed by such an unpleasant task."

 The scout nodded.  "Ma nuvenin.  Where is Ryneth?"

 Elodie gave him directions to the library, watching his eyes widen as he realized just how large the house was.  He left at once, mumbling something about shemlen decadence, and she turned her attention back to the others.

 Freylen had finished washing.  She dried her hands and face on a towel and walked over to the table, her face still an unnatural shade of white.  Atharil pulled out a chair for her, and she sat down gingerly on its edge.

 "Are you all right, vhenan?"  He put a hand in one of hers, still pink from either blood or scrubbing.

 She nodded, straightening her back.  "I'll be fine."  Then, turning to Elodie, "I'm sorry about earlier.  I hope we can begin again."

 Elodie was taken aback by her sudden change of heart.  She looked at Atharil questioningly, but he only smiled and squeezed his lover's hand.

 "I... well, of course."  She cleared her throat.  "I understand this is difficult for you, Freylen.  It isn't easy for me, either, knowing that no matter what happens I may not be keeping my child.  But perhaps I overstepped in coming to your encampment, and for that -"

 "No."  The Dalish woman shook her head.  "It's true I was uncomfortable, but the request itself was not unreasonable."  She hesitated.  "What did you think of our camp, anyway?"

 Elodie recalled the stink of the halla, the dirty children fighting over a toy, the old man who'd suggested Atharil should kill her.  "It was... quite different from Val Royeaux in some respects," she managed.  "It gave me a lot to consider."

 Atharil nodded, seeming to take her words as a compliment.  "Good.  Take your time."  He stood up, drawing Freylen with him.  "Meanwhile, do you mind if I show her the ballroom?  I think I remember the way."

 

 They were gone only a few minutes when the door from the dining room swung inward once more.  Elodie started at the sound, her teacup dropping from her hand.  It landed on its side on the rough wood table, spilling what remained of her drink over the surface.

 "Oh, Maker, I'm sorry!"  Hendry reached for a towel, inadvertently grabbing the one Freylen had just used to dry her bloodied hands.  He mopped at the table ineffectually, blushing a bright crimson. 

 "It's alright; it's my fault."  She stood up.  "Here, let me do that."  He handed her the towel and she brought it over to a cupboard, exchanging it discreetly for a clean cloth.

 "I'm sorry," he repeated as she wiped away the spill.  "But I'm glad I found you."

 She stiffened at his words.  "You were looking for me?  Why?"

 Hendry looked embarrassed.  "Oh... well, I was just looking for company, that's all.  Feyndir is with Ryneth now, and I thought I'd give them some space."

 "I see."  Elodie could feel her shoulders relax at his explanation, but now, inexplicably, she was on the verge of tears.  It was always this way lately; she was constantly jumping at shadows, then breaking down.  Or worse, being overcome by a rage that had nothing upon which to release itself.  "Atharil and Freylen are in the ballroom, I think."

 Hendry nodded.  "Uh-huh.  Sure.  That's an option, I suppose."  He made no move to leave.

 "But not one that interests you?"  She dried her eyes quickly on the back of her sleeve, hoping he wouldn't notice her sudden burst of emotion.

 Hendry sighed.  "Look, I've spent the past three days outdoors, my campsite watched day and night by stone-faced wood elves staring down at me from the trees.  Every time I so much as picked up a stick to poke the fire, they aimed their arrows at me."  He pulled out a chair and slumped into it.  "Between you and me, I'm a little tired of dealing with the Dalish right now."

 Elodie tried to suppress a smile.  "They can be... prickly, can't they?  Your sister seems content with them, though."

 "I thought she'd lost her mind for a long time," he admitted, happily accepting the scone she offered on a small, flowered plate.  "But Feyndir seems like a nice enough fellow.  You know, once you get past the tattoos, and the weird gibberish he speaks.  And all the pagan nonsense, of course."

 Elodie nodded, pouring them each a fresh cup of tea.  "But even without his Dalish ways, he'd still be an elf."

 Hendry was quiet for a moment.  "That's true.  But I don't think it would have bothered me nearly so much if he was like you.  Civilized, I mean.  Respectable."

 "Respectable?"  Elodie choked back laughter.  "Orlesian elves aren't respected, and from what I hear things aren't much better in Ferelden."

 "Your employers trust you, though."  Hendry looked around him.  "They set you to mind this place all by yourself, so they must have great faith in you."

 Elodie sank onto her chair.  "That is not why I'm here."

 "Oh."  An awkward silence followed, then, "Is it because you're pregnant?"

 Her hands flew to her stomach, defensive.  "You can tell?"

 Hendry reddened.  "I wasn't sure earlier, but just there when you were pouring the tea....  I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have mentioned it, obviously.  My dad says my mouth runs faster than my brain sometimes."

 "Your father sounds like a wise man."  She stood up to leave, and felt his hand close around her wrist. 

 "Don't go, please."

 "Don't touch me!"  It was more a shriek than anything.

 Hendry let go as if she'd struck him, his chair grinding across the stone floor as he pushed it away from the table.  "Maker, Elodie, what's the matter with -"  A look of horror settled on his face mid-sentence, and she knew he'd guessed the answer.  "Who did it?  It was Atharil, wasn't it?"  He stood suddenly, fists curled at his sides.

 "No!  No, it wasn't Atharil."  She'd never seen a human react this way to discovering an elf had been raped.  It was confusing; these things happened, after all.  A kind person might pity her, or even be disgusted, but angry?  Willing to fight someone over it?  The idea frightened her.

 "You're lying."  He was pacing now, and she paced with him, keeping herself between him and the door that led to the dining room and the rest of the house.  "This is why Feyndir fought with him, isn't it?  It makes perfect sense.  This is the 'situation' between you two!"

 "No!"  She held out her hands, trying to calm him.  "Do you really think Feyndir would let Atharil anywhere near his sister if that were the case?  Do you?"

 Hendry paused.  "I would hope not."  He gave her a hard look.  "You swear that's not Atharil's baby?"

 She groaned internally at his choice of wording.  "I swear Atharil didn't... he isn't the one who forced me."

 It took Hendry a while to catch on this time.  Elodie waited, growing more embarrassed by the second, until finally understanding dawned in his eyes.  Understanding, and something else.

 "Oh.  So the child might still be his, then."  His tone had changed, grown subtly colder.  "Or, it could belong to...."

 "It could belong to the son of the man who owns this house."  She hugged herself, avoiding his gaze.

 Hendry paled.  "I'm very sorry to hear that," he offered, sympathy mixing with his newfound disgust for her.  "I wish you well.  Truly."

 "I didn't know about Freylen."  She didn't understand why she was even bothering to defend herself to him. 

 "You don't owe me an explanation.  It's none of my business."  He shuffled his feet, glancing toward the door.  "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go find Ryneth again.  I should probably spend more time with her and Hugo while I have the chance."

 Elodie nodded, her tongue thick in her throat.  "Of course," she said, forcing a smile.  "Your nephew is such a lovely baby, Hendry.  Enjoy your time with him."

 She wished she were wearing her mask.


	44. Chapter 44

 Freylen turned slowly about, her bare feet padding on the polished marble floor.  "This place is incredible, Atharil."

 The hunter glanced about the ballroom.  "Ir abelas, my love.  All I see is your ruined dress reflected in a hundred mirrors."

 She looked down at it.  "It's not ruined.  A few stitches and a bit of scrubbing, and it will be good as new.  Maybe I'll wear it for our bonding ceremony."

 Atharil's mouth turned up in a half-smile.  "You will not.  I'll have something made for the occasion, from wyvern scales and wolfskin."

 "Wyvern scales?  And where are you going to get those?"  She was teasing him.

 "From a wyvern."  He furrowed his eyebrows in mock suspicion.  "You doubt my prowess, vhenan?  Don't I always take what I pursue?"

 She laughed, the sound echoing off the gilded walls.  "The Hissing Wastes are a long way off, hunter.  I shall have to consider whether the clan can spare you."

 He tipped his head, his eyes never leaving hers.  "As you say, my First.  Of course."

 "Atharil...."  She stepped closer to him, suddenly serious.  "About Elodie - I'm concerned for her safety.  One woman alone out here, with a civil war raging...."

 "I agree."  He frowned.  "She's been lucky until now, but who knows what would have happened if we weren't here today?"

 Freylen nodded.  "Some of our scouts have reported finding other mansions in the area ransacked, as well.  I'm afraid that corpse in the garden won't be enough to save her in the long run."

 "But what else can we do?  I doubt Elodie would be willing to stay in the camp, even temporarily."

 She took a deep breath.  "Our clan could send hunters in groups of three or four to guard the house.  She'd only need to be convinced to let them."

 Atharil's pale eyes widened slightly.  "You really think the Keeper would agree to that?"

 "If the child she carries is yours, is it not already a member of Clan Lutharra?  And do we not defend what is ours?"  He could hear the determination in her voice, and reached out to stroke her cheek in admiration.

 "Tirsas doesn't know about the baby yet, but he does know about us.  You won't be embarrassed to explain the situation?"

 Freylen sniffed.  "He'd find out eventually, anyway."  She planted a a quick kiss on the end of his nose.  "Besides, I'm not going to tell him.  You are."

  
   
 "I don't care what Hendry said; you don't smell."  Feyndir poured a last bucket of hot water into the copper tub and sat down on the edge of the bed, exhausted.  "We washed in the river just yesterday."

 "It's not the same."  Ryneth approached the steaming water with anticipation and dropped her towel, pleased to see that Feyndir's eyes still lit up at the sight of her.  "Creators, how I've missed hot baths."  She stepped in gingerly and sat down, closing her eyes in pleasure.

 "It was kind of Elodie to let us use it."  She heard the bed creak slightly as he moved to kneel beside her.  "We must be certain everything in this room is put back precisely as it was before we leave tomorrow.  The Orlesian nobility can never know she had visitors."   

 Ryneth opened her eyes.  "Stop worrying, vhenan.  We'll leave the place spotless."

 Feyndir dangled a hand over the side of the tub, letting his long fingers trail slowly through the warm water before brushing against her breast.  He leaned in to kiss her.

 "Watch yourself, elf," she murmured, nibbling at his lower lip.  "It's way too soon for that sort of thing."

 He groaned.  "I miss you already."

 "I'm right here.  You can even join me if you promise to behave yourself."  She splashed at him playfully.

 Feyndir considered.  "Hugo should sleep for Hendry for a while.  I suppose there's no real harm in it...."

 Ryneth splashed him again.  "You'll still be Dalish when we're finished, I promise.  The bad shemlen bathtub won't steal your soul."

 "You're hilarious.  Truly."  He pulled his tunic over his head.  "Don't you think elves had such luxuries, too, once?  The Dalish eschew them to keep ourselves from desiring what we can't have, not because they're intrinsically evil."

 Ryneth leaned back, resting her head against the sloping end of the tub, letting her long hair fall outside of it.  "On second thought, maybe you should stay away."  She smiled.  "Desiring what you can't have is a particular weakness of yours."

 Feyndir, already down to just his pants, tugged at the laces and let them drop.  "I don't know what you're talking about."  He stepped into the water, wincing slightly at the heat, and sat down across from her.  "I have you, don't I?  You and Hugo are all I have ever wanted."

 Ryneth didn't answer.  Instead, she carefully turned around and scooted backwards until her back pressed up against his smooth chest, her body seated between his parted legs.  She laid her head against his shoulder.

 "Are you certain there's not more you want?" she asked after a moment.  "I can feel that."

 "Ignore it.  I cannot help being aroused by my beautiful wife."

 She reached behind her instead, finding him beneath the water, feeling his heartbeat quicken at her touch.  Feyndir closed his eyes, his breath catching in his throat as her hand moved on him, and for a few brief moments he thought he would find release.  But then, unexpectedly, her movements first slowed, then stopped.  He waited in silence another few seconds, wondering whether she was teasing him, and then he heard it.  Faintly, softly, Ryneth was snoring.

 "Fenedhis."  Feyndir turned his head with difficulty, peering out of the corner of one eye to find her sleeping, mouth slightly ajar, on his shoulder.  He kissed her forehead lightly, mindful not to wake her, and whispered into one of her tiny, rounded ears.

 "Mir vhenan somniar.  Ar lath ma."  
 


	45. Chapter 45

 "Farewell, and be careful on your journey home.  I'll miss you more than you know."

 Hendry sighed.  "She's a horse, Ryneth.  She doesn't even know what you're saying."

 Ryneth patted Molly's neck again, smiling.  "Take care of Hendry for me, too.  I know he can be a pain, but he's our pain."

 He rolled his eyes.   
   
 "Dareth shiral, brother."  Feyndir held out a hand and Hendry shook it, surprised the Dalish was familiar with the gesture.  "Safe travels."

 Hendry adopted a serious expression.  "Look after my sister and nephew, elf.  Or else."

 Behind them, Atharil burst out laughing, and Freylen elbowed him hard in the ribs.  "Ara seranna-ma," he coughed, struggling to keep a straight face.  "If Feyndir neglects Ryneth, I'll avenge her myself, shemlen."

 "I'm sure you'd be well able for it, too."  Hendry blinked; his eye was even more swollen today than it had been the night before.

 "Wait!"  Elodie rushed out of the house, shielding her eyes against the sight of the eviscerated corpse in the tree.  She wiped her hands on her apron nervously, glancing around at the assembled group.  "I was putting together some food for your journey, serah, but I haven't quite finished."

 Hendry felt his face unexpectedly flush with color.  "Oh.  You were?"

 She nodded.  "If that's all right, I mean...."

 "Of course it is.  Thank you, Elodie."  He noticed the other staring, then, and motioned toward the kitchen.  "I can help you, if you'd like."

 She smiled, relief flooding her features.  "That would be nice, yes."

  
 "Am I the only one who saw that?"  Feyndir asked when they were gone.  "After all the grief he gave Ryneth...."

 Atharil scowled.  "I don't like it.  Shems only want one thing from elven women."

 "Excuse me?"  Ryneth shifted the sling that held a sleeping baby Hugo against her chest.  "That's my brother you're talking about."

 "Besides," Freylen interjected, "you're hardly in a position to speak about such things, are you?"

 Feyndir inhaled sharply.  "I think you'd better choose your next words carefully, lethallin.  I can't be expected to fend off both of them."

 Atharil looked embarrassed.  "Ir abelas," he told the frowning women.  "My comment was ill-considered.  Forgive me."

 

 Inside, Elodie busied herself filling a kerchief with cheese and salted meat from the larder.  It was clean now, Atharil having cleared away any trace of the luckless soul who'd met his death within.  Hendry watched her a moment, uncertain how to begin.

 "I've been thinking about what I said yesterday," he started finally, " and I wish I could take it back.  I shouldn't have judged you."

 Elodie shook her head.  "You didn't say anything wrong, serah.  You were very polite, in fact.  I'm only sorry I disappointed you."

 He sighed.  "I was just... surprised, that's all.  I didn't think someone like you would be interested in someone like Atharil.  It seems a strange fit."

 She paused, one hand holding a corner of the fabric.  "Why is that?"

 Hendry studied his feet.  "He's just so rough around the edges, that's all.  Even for a Dalish.  And you... you're a lady."

 Elodie smiled slowly.  "I grew up in the Val Royeaux alienage, serah.  If you mistake me for a lady, perhaps it's only due to my Orlesian accent."

 "That isn't it.  And please stop calling me 'serah'; I was 'Hendry' yesterday."

 She gathered the cloth together and tied a knot in it.  "If you wish, Hendry."

 "Thank you."  He hesitated.  "Ryneth tells me you plan to give the child away when it's born."

 Elodie frowned.  "If it's human, yes.  Better to be thought a human orphan than an elf-blooded bastard.  If it isn't... I haven't decided yet."

 He nodded.  "And then what?"

 "And then...."  Her shoulders sagged.  "Then I'll return to my employer."

 Hendry shook his head.  "You don't have to do that, Elodie."

 She whirled around.  "Of course I don't have to.  I could quit and return to the alienage, try to hire myself out to some other family.  Do you think they would treat me any differently?  Or maybe I could become a thief, or a beggar, or -"

 "Stop."  He held up a hand.  "You could come and stay on my father's farm; that's what I meant.  There hasn't been a woman about the place since Ryneth abandoned us - I'm sure we could find something for you to do.  Can you cook at all?"

 Elodie's green eyes widened in surprise.  "Oh.  I can make tarts and cake.  And scones."

 Hendry blinked.  "Okay, well, that's a start.  We won't be wanting for desserts, at any rate."

 "What about your father, though?"  She pressed a hand to her heart.  "He wouldn't mind a strange elf showing up on his doorstep?"

 He waved a hand.  "You certainly wouldn't be the strangest, Elodie.  We're talking about the same man who allowed his daughter to run off with a Dalish clan, remember?  Maker knows why, but he seems to have a weak spot for anyone with pointy ears."

 "I know why."  Ryneth had come in quietly; now she closed the door behind her before continuing.  "I'm sorry for interrupting, but there's something you should know, Hendry, and I get the sense that now is the right time to tell you."

 "Then I'll leave you two alone."  Elodie tried to bow out, but Ryneth stopped her.

 "No, please stay."  She looked at Hendry.  "It's about our mother."

 He frowned at her, suddenly uneasy.  "What about her?"

 Ryneth cast a reassuring smile at Elodie.  "She was born in an alienage, too."

 Hendry squeezed his eyes shut in confusion.  "That doesn't make any sense.  Mother was human, and her parents -"

 "Adopted her from an elven woman who found herself in a position very similar to Elodie's.  Only our grandmother wanted to join a Dalish clan, and they wouldn't allow her to bring the baby with her."

 Hendry stared at her for a moment, then pulled out a chair and sat down heavily.  "You're telling me our mother was elf-blooded?  How long have you known this?"

 "Since Father found out about Feyndir.  I thought he'd be furious, but instead he explained why he wasn't."

 Hendry's brow furrowed.  "Does Feyndir know, too?"

 "I... well, of course he does.  I told him about myself, I mean, and it just follows that -"

 "He never so much as hinted."  He put a hand to his forehead, pushing back his hair.  "I feel like an idiot."

 "If it helps," Elodie interjected, "most humans probably have an elven ancestor or two somewhere along the line.  The only difference is that you know, and they don't."

 Hendry looked up at her.  "Thank you, but truth be told it doesn't bother me as much as I'd expect."  His face flushed.  "Not that... I mean -"

 "It's all right.  No one aspires to be an elf, after all."  She laughed quietly, glancing at Ryneth.  "Almost no one, anyway."

  
 By the time they returned to the others, Atharil and Freylen had already departed.  Hendry tucked the kerchief of food into one of Molly's saddlebags and turned back to Elodie.

 "You'll consider it, then?"

 She nodded.  "I will.  It's a very generous offer, Hendry, only...."  Her hand moved to her stomach. 

 "You can always bring the little one, too, if that's what you decide - whether it's an elf or a human.  Don't worry about that."

 Feyndir raised an eyebrow.  "Bring it where?"

 Elodie beamed at him.  "Hendry suggested I might come work for him and his father."

 "Oh."  The scout looked troubled.  "That's...unexpected."

 Ryneth and Hendry embraced then, and the young man prepared once more to depart.  He swung easily up into Molly's saddle and looked down at Feyndir, a roguish smile at the corners of his mouth.

 "What was that you said to me earlier?  The elven words?"

 Feyndir thought a moment.  "'Dareth shiral'?  It's a farewell.  It means 'safe journey'."

 Hendry nodded.  "That's it.  And is the phrase reserved for those who are departing, or might one also say it to those they leave behind?"

 The elf gave him a suspicious look.  "It is not always used literally, if that's what you're asking."

 "Very good."  Hendry tipped his head slightly.  "Dareth shiral, Feyndir."

 The Dalish glanced at Ryneth, a question in his wide blue eyes, but she only smiled back innocently.  "Dareth shiral, Hendry," he returned when he'd recovered his voice.  "May...may your Andraste watch over you."


	46. Chapter 46

 Tirsas closed his eyes and took several deep breaths before responding to Atharil's request.  Kneeling across from him, the hunter watched his Keeper's chest rise and fall with growing unease, wondering whether he was about to find himself banished again, this time permanently.  Would Tirsas really do that?  Probably not, if only for Freylen's sake.  More likely, the Keeper was trying to come up with some inventive form of punishment that would make exile seem preferable.  He waited to hear what it would be.

 "Very well."  Tirsas opened his eyes and frowned.  "I will assign a rotation of hunters to secure your... 'friend's' safety, and that of her child.  With the understanding that an elven child belongs with Clan Lutharra, of course."

 "Yes, of course."  Atharil let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, hardly able to believe his ears.  He could worry about the details later; what mattered was that Elodie would be safe.  "Ma serannas, hahren.  This means so -"

 Tirsas held up a hand.  "I will also expect you to take the lead in this endeavor.  You will give up hunting temporarily, and personally take a shift every day guarding the shemlen house."

 Atharil winced.  He would miss the quiet of the forest, as well as the thrill of the chase.  Hunting cleared his mind and calmed his spirit; it reassured him of his worth and affirmed his place in the clan.  Still, he knew better than to argue.  The Keeper's demand was only fair under the circumstances.  He just hoped Freylen wouldn't feel threatened anew when she realized how much time he'd be spending with Elodie.

 "Then, in the evenings," Tirsas continued blithely, "you will alternate with the hahren in singing and telling bedtime stories to the da'len.  For practice."  There was a twinkle in his eyes as he said it, a tempered glimmer of his deeper irritation.  "I hope you recall the tales of the Long Walk and the founding of Halamshiral."

 Atharil groaned.  So he was to be punished in some small way, after all.  "As you say, Keeper."  He touched his forehead briefly to the earth in a gesture of obedience before rising to his feet.

 "One thing more, da'len, before you go."  Tirsas pointed a thin finger at the hunter.  "Your courtship of my First has been abysmal.  If you expect me to approve your bonding with her, I had better hear that you are following tradition from here on out.  Am I understood?"

 Atharil stared at him.  "How do you know -"

 The Keeper waved a hand dismissively.  "Freylen told me the minute you two returned to camp.  She's so excited that I had to excuse her from her studies for the rest of the day."  He gave the hunter a hard look.  "Be worthy of that affection, Atharil."

 The elf tipped his head, a sudden lump in his throat making it difficult to speak.  "I will do my best."

 

 Outside the tent, Atharil took a deep, steadying breath, gazing up into a brilliant blue sky.  Far off to the east, the quieted Breach cast a vague greenish glow.  It used to bother him to look at it, especially in the early days when it gaped and flashed and threatened to tear the Veil asunder.  Now, it just seemed part of the landscape, no more remarkable than a tree or a boulder.

 "Ah, the unmistakable face of a man who's just spoken with Tirsas."  Feyndir clapped a hand on his back.  "How did it go?"

 "Better than I'd expected, to be honest.  He's promised to send hunters to Elodie in exchange for a few bedtime stories."

 Feyndir lifted a brow.  "What?"

 "For the children, lethallin.  He wants me to entertain them."

 "Ah.  Well, that's easy enough.  He must be softening up in his old age."  He frowned suddenly.  "Atharil, I heard something earlier that you should know."

 The hunter caught the hesitation in his friend's voice and steeled himself.  "Go ahead."

 Feyndir told him then of Hendry's offer, and of Elodie's delighted response to it.  Atharil could feel the blood first leaving his extremities as the other elf spoke, then rushing back as his shock was replaced by anger.

 "He told her she could bring the child, as well?  _My _child?  Are you certain?"__

____

____

 Feyndir looked apologetic.  "He said the baby was welcome whether it's elven or human.  I was standing right there."

____

____

 Atharil wanted very badly to strike something.  "And what did Ryneth say?  Did she explain to him -"

____

____

 The scout shook his head.  "Don't put her in the middle of this, Atharil.  Hendry is her brother, you can't ask her to take sides -"

____

____

 "I'm not asking her to take sides!"  Atharil shouted.  A few of the elves in camp looked up, startled, and he lowered his voice.  "I only thought she might have reminded him that the baby already has a father, already has a people.  And they aren't shem farmers!"

____

____

 "Atharil, calm down before you say something you'll regret."  Feyndir laid a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and Atharil could feel himself shaking beneath it.  "Elodie has made no decision as yet.  There is still time for you to convince her."

____

____

 The hunter nodded, trying to slow his breathing.  "You're right, lethallin.  I will have many more opportunites to sway her opinion of the Dalish before the baby is born."

____

____

 "You will, yes."  Feyndir looked relieved.  "And if I can help you in any way, I am here."

____

____

 "Thank you."  Atharil looked away, suddenly embarrassed.  "Will you be in camp later this evening, my friend?"

____

____

 "Of course." 

____

____

 "And will you... could you make sure Freylen is with you?"

____

____

 Feyndir frowned in confusion.  "Atharil, why do you -"  He broke off suddenly.

____

____

 The hunter nodded grimly.  "Yes, that.  I have already asked her, but our dear Keeper is insisting I follow tradition in the matter."

____

____

 "I see."  He was quiet a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching.  "I hope I can remember my part.  It's been years since I watched anyone attempt the Athim'him."

____

____

 "Do try, or Tirsas will probably make me repeat the performance."

____

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 Feyndir laughed.  "You know, I think I'm going to enjoy this."

____

____

 "Well, that makes one of us."

____

____

 The scout punched his arm lightly, still chuckling.  "You should probably go take a nap, Atharil.  It's going to be a long night for you."

____

____

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> athim'him - A word I constructed using the canon words "him" (become) and "athim" (humility)


	47. Chapter 47

 Ryneth stared into the flames of Clan Lutharra's large communal fire and shivered.  The night was mild and she wasn't cold, but she was keenly aware that several pairs of interested eyes were watching  her and Feyndir, waiting to see why the usually private couple had chosen to put in an appearance on this particular evening.

 "People are staring," she muttered, inching closer to him on the log.

 Feyndir frowned slightly.  "That's what we get for spending so much time in our aravel.  Our mere presence has become a curiosity."

 "We'll draw even more attention when Atharil arrives."  Freylen was trying to sound indifferent, annoyed even, but Ryneth could hear the breathlessness in her voice.  "If he shows up, that is."

 "He'll show.  Stop worrying."  Feyndir shook his head.  "Though perhaps I should turn him away in earnest.  You're still very young to make such a commitment, you know."

 Freylen snorted.  "This little show is only a formality.  Only the Keeper can truly forbid a couple to bond."

 "Yes, and Tirsas has promised to do exactly that if Atharil doesn't abide by tradition."  He smirked.  "Which requires my cooperation."

 Ryneth gave him a black look.  "Don't you dare do anything to come between them."

 He frowned.  "Very well.  I won't give him any harder a time than is necessary for appearances, you have my word."  He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.  "It may still be difficult for you to watch, vhenan.  I know Dalish ways can appear harsh -"

 "Just don't stab him again."  She folded her arms.

 "What?"  He looked stung.  "Creators, when are you going to let that go?  He has."

 She shrugged.  "Dalish ways are harsh, as you said.  You need to tell me now if there's going to be blood spilled here tonight."

 "There's not, I assure you.  I mean, it does happen occasionally, if a family truly disapproves of a union, but that isn't-"  He stopped speaking abruptly as a pale figure emerged from the darkness.  "Ah, here he is."

 

 Atharil glanced around at the Dalish gathered near the fire, nodding briefly to Ryneth as their eyes met.  She smiled back at him encouragingly, noting that the hunter who didn't think twice about dropping onto a bear's back seemed strangely nervous to find himself the center of the clan's attention.  It was oddly endearing.

 The elf knelt awkwardly at Feyndir's feet.  He avoided Freylen's gaze entirely, but whether that was out of embarrassment or simply part of the ceremony, Ryneth couldn't tell.  The First, meanwhile, was covering her mouth in a vain attempt to disguise her obvious pleasure, her eyes sparkling.  Whatever his past mistakes, Ryneth had to concede that the Keeper had prescribed the correct course of action in this case.  Freylen was clearly thrilled at the prospect of a very public exhibition of her lover's devotion.

 Atharil cleared his throat.  "Hahren Feyndir," he began, speaking louder than was necessary for the benefit of those assembled, "in your heart the blood of the Emerald Knight Lindara is renewed.  I offer you this, her dagger, as a sign of my respect for your family's honored lineage."

 The hunter unsheathed the weapon, its silverite blade reflecting orange in the light of the campfire.  The handle was ironbark, carved into the shape of a halla's antlers, and rubies sparkled along its crossguard.  Instantly, Ryneth recognized that the object was not truly Atharil's.  Such artifacts were clan items, owned jointly, though individually possessed by only one elf at a time.  Now, this one was passing to Feyndir.

 Atharil lifted the dagger, laid flat across both his palms in a gesture of offering, and Feyndir rose to accept it.

 "Ma serannas, Atharil," he responded, turning the blade over in his hands.  "You descend by the will of the Mother of Hares, through the ancient line of Elrahel.  I accept your gift, and I recognize your own noble ancestry."

 Ryneth glanced about furtively while the elves spoke.  Every eye was on them now; some of the Dalish had even risen to their feet to get a better view.  Arms crossed, they witnessed the ritual with solemnity, their expressions inscrutable.  Only time would tell whether they favored the anticipated bonding.

 "Hahren Feyndir," Atharil repeated.  He took a deep breath, finally stealing a sidelong look at Freylen, who giggled and blushed.  "Let us strengthen the People through the union of our elvhen blood.  Let us join our families."  His hands fumbled slightly as he reached into a leather pouch hanging from his belt, withdrawing a small, carved knight.  "I offer this in exchange for your sister Freylen as my bond-mate."

 Feyndir looked at the figure resting on Atharil's open palm, his eyes widening in surprise.

 "What are you doing?" he hissed.  "Put that away!"

 Atharil shook his head slowly.  "This is my offering.  This is my most valuable possession."

 "I know what it -"  He ran a hand through his dark hair.  "Creators, Atharil, give me something else!  No one will know."  He looked around, checking to make sure his words hadn't carried.

 "I would know," Atharil replied simply.  "I've made mistakes, lethallin.  Let me do this the right way."

 The scout hesitated a moment, then sighed in defeat.  "If you're determined to do this, then so be it."  He reached for Freylen's hand, drawing her lightly to her feet.  "Little sister, the hunter Atharil would bind his life to yours.  How will you answer him?"

 Freylen's eyes fell on the intricately-detailed warrior, a perfect representation of an Emerald Knight right down to the wolf who curled itself protectively about the wooden elf's legs.  She frowned slightly.

 "This is it?  I thought you'd offer your bow, Atharil, not a toy."

 Feyndir shot her a warning look.  "It was a gift from his father - the only thing he left behind the night Atharil was conceived."

 "Oh."  Her expression softened suddenly.  "You never mentioned this, vhenan.  You never speak of your father at all...."

 Atharil looked up at her, a lopsided grin on his face.  "What would I say?  I never met him."

 She shook her head.  "Feyndir, you can't -"

 The scout took a quick look around at the gathered clan, still watching them with quiet interest.  "I need your answer, Freylen.  Will you have Atharil as your bond-mate?"

 "I will.  But -"

 Feyndir snatched the soldier from his friend's outstretched hand before she could finish the thought, and flung it into the fire. 

 "If you would have my sister from me, you must prove yourself with more than baubles."  He spoke quickly, his voice rough with emotion.  "But show me your dedication, and I will beseech Sylaise to bless your union."

 "I will not rest until I have convinced you.  I swear it."  Atharil's gaze never wavered, though the hand that had held his keepsake curled at his side.  

 

 Freylen wept.  She made no noise, her face buried in Ryneth's pillow, but her shoulders shook with sobs.

 "I don't think this is the reaction Atharil wanted," Feyndir said, patting her arm.  He sat beside her on the aravel's wide bed, rocking Hugo's cradle with one toe.  "He was trying to show you the depth of his love, da'len."

 "I know," she sniffed, her voice muffled.  "But it was too much.  I would never have asked him to make such a sacrifice."  She paused.  "And don't call me 'da'len'."

 Feyndir smiled.  "I suppose I shouldn't, now that you're to be a wedded woman."

 She looked up at him, frowning, her eyes rimmed with red.  "Don't tempt the Old Wolf, brother.  Atharil still has to sit up all night."

 "He's doing fine so far."  Ryneth was peering out the aravel's small, rounded rear window.  "I'll let you know if he totters off the log."

 "Do that."  Feyndir stood and stepped over to her, resting one hand against the small of her back.  "If he falls asleep, I'll have to prop him back up before anyone notices."

 Freylen groaned and sat up, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve.  "Has anyone come by yet?  To show their support?"

 Feyndir squinted into the darkness.  "Someone left him a blanket.  Caran, probably."  He yawned. 

 His sister looked disappointed.  "That's it?  One person out of the entire clan?  Does no one else approve of our bonding?"

 The other two exchanged a worried look. 

 "It's still early," Ryneth assured her.  "But... you know word's gotten out about Elodie."

 Feyndir grunted.  "If few of our clansmen show, that will be why."  He folded his arms.  "Try not to worry about it; it's no reflection on you, and it doesn't matter in the long run."

 Freylen shook her head.  "But I'm their First.  I need them to respect me.  To believe they can trust my judgement."

 "They do.  It's Atharil's judgement they question."  Ryneth put a hand to the window.  "Hold on - here comes someone else now."

 

 Atharil looked up wearily at the light approaching.  At first, he could make out only a swaying lantern and a figure in a dark cloak, but as the elf drew closer he recognized the outline of a familiar, if unexpected, face.

 "Hahren," he said, nodding.  "Bit late for a stroll through camp, is it not?"

 Tirsas set the lantern on the ground and threw off his hood.

 "Here."  He sat down beside Atharil and handed him a pouch.  "You did well tonight, da'len."

 Atharil opened the bag cautiously, and drew out a long, slender flute.  He looked at the Keeper questioningly.  "Ma serannas, but I don't play, I'm afraid."

 "You should consider learning.  Babies love music."  He shrugged and held out a hand.  "Allow me."

 Atharil handed him the instrument, still confused.  "What are you doing?"

 "Keeping you company during your vigil."  Tirsas smiled, the lantern's glow revealing thin lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth.  Atharil couldn't recall whether they'd been there before Maeven's death, but he thought not.  Leadership was taking its toll, and the shemlen's curse was already evident on the new Keeper's young face.  "And making certain everyone knows I approve of this match, of course."

 Tirsas lifted the flute to his lips and began to play.  Atharil didn't recognize the tune, but he was familiar with the style.  Whatever the song was, it was old enough to have echoed through the halls of Elgar'nan's Bastion before the fall of the Dales.  Maybe older.  The thought made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

 The tone of the Keeper's melody, unfortunately, was less awe-inspiring and more headache-inducing.  Either Tirsas wasn't a very skilled musician, or there was something wrong with the flute... or he was doing it on purpose.  As soon as the thought occurred to him, Atharil was certain the last explanation was the correct one.  No one could ignore the shrill tune for long; after just a few moments, tent flaps began lifting at the corners as irritated and sleepy elves searched for the music's source.  A short time later, gifts began arriving.

 Some of them were small and immediate - a mug of tea to help Atharil stay awake, a bowl of soup in case he got hungry.  A few of the young girls brought feathers for his hair that Freylen might find him handsome, giggling as they handed them over.  His fellow hunters offered him hides and fresh arrows.  The clan's elders, ever practical, brought wooden utensils and blankets for the couple's new life together. 

 Tirsas slipped off to his own tent sometime in the midst of it all, wordlessly leaving the flute behind.  The outpouring of support he'd begun continued long after he'd departed, however.  By the time dawn broke, Atharil was surrounded by tangible tokens of the clan's approval of he and Freylen's union.  Feyndir regarded the piles of gifts with a veneer of extreme seriousness.

 "It appears the clan has spoken," he said, "and I can't have you haunting my aravel forever.  Consider me officially convinced of the strength of your commitment to Freylen, lethallin.  May Sylaise smile on you both." 

 He stepped aside then, and his sister threw herself into the hunter's arms, nearly knocking him off his feet.

 "Ar lath ma, Atharil," she sighed, nuzzling his neck.  Her teeth grazed the lower edge of his ear.  "Thank you for doing this."

 Atharil grinned, his pale eyes sparkling above dark, exhausted circles.  "Ma nuvenin, vhenan.  Shall we go back to my tent and have a rest?"

 Feyndir cleared his throat.  "Not if you intend to keep up this traditional facade until your bonding."  He turned back to his aravel, to his wife and child waiting within.  "Don't worry, feigning respectability isn't as onerous as it might seem - just restrict your frolicking to the woods from now on.  I suspect that won't be much of a problem for you two."


	48. Chapter 48

 "Another ruin?"  Elodie sighed.  "We just visited one last week, and another two weeks before that.  Is it really necessary I visit every crumbling elven structure in the Dales?"

 Atharil scowled.  "I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to learn something of your people's history, Elodie.  There's a mosaic at this site that suggests -"

 "And how far away is it, hmm?  My back aches already, and my feet are so swollen they look like they belong to a shem... no offence, Ryneth."

 Ryneth shrugged.  "None taken."  Hugo was back at camp with Feyndir, and Atharil had grudgingly allowed her to follow him across a short series of wide, low branches on their way to the mansion.  She was in far too good a humor to care whether her feet were larger than elves'.

 Atharil stared grumpily out the kitchen's lone window, watching as a pair of ravens squabbled over what little remained of the scavenger's body.  Officially, he was on guard duty, but the Graves had been so quiet the past couple of months that it almost seemed unnecessary.  Some of the clan's scouts reported the relative calm might be due to planned peace talks in Halamshiral, but there was no way to be certain.

 "If you don't want to go, just say so." 

 "I don't want to go, Atharil."  Elodie pushed a plate across the table toward him.  "Sit down and have a tart."

 "No.  All I do these days is stand about eating shemlen pastries.  At this rate, I'll be the first fat elf in Thedas."

 Elodie stroked her stomach, the thin fabric of her dress stretched tight across it.  "Poor you.  We can't have that."

 Ryneth glanced worriedly from one of them to the other.  "Maybe Atharil could play us something on his flute, instead.  What was that song you performed for the children last night, lethallin?  'Ghilan'nain's Lament'?"

 The Orlesian frowned.  "Andraste preserve me.  I don't suppose you know anything less... pagan?"

 "Ir abelas," Atharil shrugged.  "The only other tune I've learned to play with any confidence is a lullaby, which... well, I suppose there's still a chance it might come in handy?"

 Elodie stared daggers at him.  "Every day.  Every day you find some excuse to ask the same question in a new way."

 "I apologize."  His fingers curled around the windowsill until the knuckles whitened.  "The answer is rather important to me."

 "As I've told you - when I make a decision, you'll be the first to know."  
   
 Ryneth pushed away from the table.  "Lethallin," she said, motioning toward the door.  "Let's go outside and walk around the garden wall.  We can check for footprints."  She glanced at Elodie, who seemed grateful for the distraction.  "We'll be back shortly."

 

 Beyond the front gate, she let out a deep breath.  "Things seem tense between you two these days.  What was all that about?"

 Atharil shook his head.  "How can she be so dismissive of her own heritage?  You have more interest in her culture than she does!"

 Ryneth frowned.  "First of all, it's not her culture."  She saw him preparing to argue, and raised a hand.  "It's not, Atharil.  Not as far as she's concerned.  And second, she's really pregnant... like, wow.  Just how much shorter are elven pregnancies, anyway?"

 "A month or so, give or take."  He kicked a stone with the side of his foot as they walked, following the curve of the towering blue wall.  "I'm almost out of time."

 "Time for what?"

 He gave her a sidelong look.  "To convince her our child would be better off among the Dalish.  I know the offer your brother made her - that she could stay with him, and bring the baby?  I can't let that happen."

 Ryneth blushed.  "I don't think he meant it that way, lethallin.  Hendry doesn't want to come between you and your child.  He just wants her to know she has options."

 The elf bristled.  "She doesn't have that option."

 "What are you talking about?"  She stopped walking.

 Atharil hesitated, a few paces in front.  "Do you think the Keeper was willing to risk our hunters to guard her safety for nothing, lethallan?" he asked, his back to her.  "If the child is mine, it belongs to Clan Lutharra.  Whatever Elodie may think."

 Ryneth was momentarily struck speechless.  "You would take the baby from her, Atharil?  Against her will?"

 "I would prefer not to."  His voice was like ice.  "I would rather convince her, but if I can't...."  He shook his head.  "I'll do what I must."

 She exhaled sharply, feeling as though she'd been punched in the stomach.  "If this is what the clan has decided, I can't stop you.  Just... just don't ask me to be a part of it, okay?  I'm not going to help you rip a child from it's mother's arms."  
   
 He turned to her, his jaw set.  "I'm sorry, Ryneth.  I know you're disappointed in me, but you don't understand.  My people have had everything taken from us."

 "Elodie is your people, you idiot!"  She shoved him, surprising them both.  "The shemlen hurt her, and now you want to hurt her, too.  How are the Dalish any better than humans, then?"

 Atharil grabbed a handful of her cloak.  "The humans she wants to run back to, you mean?  Because she's too witless to choose freedom over slavery?"

 "Elodie won't return to Val Royeaux.  She'll go with Hendry, and he'll -"

 "He'll what?  Take pity on her?  Treat her well, so long as she keeps his house and speaks his tongue and worships his fucking Maker?"  He pushed her away.  "I won't have my child raised as a second-class person in a human household.  You don't have to like it.  I don't expect you'll sympathize, either.  But for your own sake, Ryneth, stay out of my way."


	49. Chapter 49

 Marienne arrived the following week.  Atharil had forewarned the other hunters that the cook would be travelling from Val Royeaux to assist with Elodie's labor, and asked that none of them show themselves until he'd spoken with her.  The elven woman passed almost directly beneath several of the Dalish on her way up the winding road, never realizing she was being watched by her forest cousins.  By the time she reached the mansion, Atharil was waiting for her.

 "Andaran atish'an," he said, throwing open the front gate.  "Elodie will be relieved to see you.  Her time is drawing near."

 The city elf frowned beneath her half-mask.  "I was afraid you might be here, filling the poor girl's head with more of your Dalish nonsense.  As if she hasn't enough on her plate."

 "Don't worry, Elodie is completely resistant to my 'nonsense'."  Atharil hesitated.  "Is that the only reason you thought to find me here?"

 Marienne's sighed.  "No, but I didn't want to presume anything.  Still, if the babe is yours at least it isn't his.  Maker take him."  She spit on the ground.

 "You should know we had an intruder."  Atharil nodded toward the remains in the tree as they walked toward the house.  "Since then, some of my clansmen have been guarding the house in shifts.  On the off chance you happen to catch sight of them in the trees, don't be alarmed."

 Marienne drew her shawl closer and peered upwards.  "So long as they remain there - I don't want your entire clan traipsing through His Lordship's house, pocketing the silver."

 "They'll stay out."  He bit back a sharper retort, reminding himself that this woman was a friend of Elodie's.  He wouldn't win any points by getting into an argument with her.

 "And cut that body down at once, and burn it.  It'll attract demons."

 Atharil scowled.  "As you wish."  He'd already asked Nahari to do just that, as the corpse was now rotted beyond all recognition.  Still, he chaffed at the appearance of doing it at some flat-ear's behest.

   
 The kitchen door swung open then, and Elodie stepped out into the filtered sunlight.  Feyndir followed close behind her, carrying Hugo in one arm, his bow slung over the opposite shoulder.  Marienne threw up her arms and turned to Atharil, aghast.

 "I thought you said they wouldn't be in the house!"

 Feyndir stared at the newcomer, surprised.  "What?"

 "Marienne!"  Elodie embraced her, leaning in over the swell of her stomach.  "This is Feyndir and his son, Hugo.  They're friends of mine."

 The cook shook her head.  "I knew it was a bad idea sending you out here all by yourself.  Now you're befriending even more Dalish?  We should have locked you in the servants' quarters in Val Royeaux until this mess was over."

 Elodie turned scarlet, whether from anger or embarrassment Atharil wasn't sure.  Feyndir cleared his throat uneasily.

 "Well, I should be going," he said, looking eager to escape.  "There's a small band of Venatori to the southwest that I've been keeping an eye on...."

 Atharil didn't miss a beat.  "I'll accompany you as far as the dead oak, and then return with Hugo to camp."  He nodded at Elodie.  "Until tomorrow."

 She made the barest hint of a curtsy, her face still flushed.  "Goodbye, Atharil."

 As they departed, he heard Marienne shrilly demanding to know where in the Maker's name Elodie's mask was.

 

 "Well, I did my best to impress her with my fatherliness," Feyndir said when they were safely away.  "I'm not sure how much good it did, though.  For some reason, Elodie doesn't see me as a typical example of Dalish parenting."

 "I can't imagine why."  Atharil smirked and held out his arms, and Feyndir transferred the sleeping infant to him.  Hugo stirred slightly, his eyebrows furrowing for a moment, his tiny fists curling beside his human ears.  "If a shem were to see you with this child, they'd assume all the tales of the Dalish snatching children for blood magic were true."

 Feyndir gave him a patient half-smile.  "Just be careful on your way home, lethallin.  And stay out of the treetops with my son, please."

 Atharil ran a single finger across the baby's forehead, smoothing back a lock of dark hair. 

 "He does resemble you, in his way."

 "Ryneth insists he has my eyes.  Not the shape, of course, but... well.  We'll see as he gets older, I suppose."  He shifted his bow to his back, preparing to part company, and a sudden thought occurred to the hunter.

 "Do you think he'll turn out to be a mage, someday?"

 "I hope not."  The response was swift; Feyndir had clearly already considered the possibility.  "Humans lock people like Freylen and I away in towers.  I don't want that for Hugo."

 Atharil tried to think of something reassuring to say.  "If he takes after you, I suppose the shems might not even notice when he comes into his magic."

 "Ass."  But the scout smiled.

 

 Ryneth was not in her aravel, nor was she anywhere nearby.  Atharil made two circuits of the clan's encampment, then left Hugo with one of the elders and went to search for her.  He thought he had some idea where she might have gone, and it turned out he was right.

 She didn't hear him approach, though he made no special effort to sneak up on her.  He didn't need to - years spent on the hunt had conditioned him to be mindful of all his steps.  Now he drew as close as he dared and leaned up against a tree, quietly folding his arms across his chest.  Watching.

 Ryneth was walking the course he'd made for her months ago, her back to him as she teetered her way slowly from one log to another, following their zig-zagging pattern across the small clearing.  Her long hair lay mostly loose on her back, save for two small, neat braids that were joined by a strip of leather behind her head.  She stepped into a beam of sunlight, and the entire mane lit up like a halo.  Unwilling, Atharil felt his breath catch, and steadied himself.  _No._

 There were a couple of close calls, but eventually she made it all the way to the far end without falling.  She turned, a broad smile on her face, her hands on her hips as she surveyed the path she'd just conquered.  And then her smile faltered, and Atharil knew she'd spotted him at last.

 "Well done, da'len," he said, shrugging off his bow and quiver.  He hopped lightly onto one of the thinner sections of the course.  The felled tree was little more than a sapling; it bounced gently beneath his feet.

 Ryneth's expression darkened.  "What do you want, Atharil?  Why are you here?"

 "I came to check your progress."

 "And?"  She crossed her arms.

 He stepped along the yielding tree and onto a sturdier log.  "You've improved considerably.  Even without my help."

 "Well, you know how it is.  I'm trying to stay out of your way."

 "Ah."  He clasped his hands behind his back and offered her a lopsided smile.  "I deserved that."

 She shook her head.  "I keep thinking how I'd feel if someone tried to take Hugo from me...."

 "Not the same thing."  He moved closer, crossing the course as if it were solid ground.  "If the child is mine, haven't I as much right to it as Elodie?"

 "I don't know."  She turned away, staring off into the forest.  "It's too painful to consider how all this might end.  Elodie is my friend, and you... you're my friend, too."

 "Then don't consider it.  Not right now, anyway."  He laid a hand on her shoulder, and felt her stiffen.  "Let me guide you back across the logs, instead.  You are still watching your feet too much - a hunter's eyes must remain on her prey."

 "A hunter's eyes?"  He heard the note of surprise in her voice.

 "You don't wish to become a hunter?  You are skilled with your bow."

 "I... I hadn't considered it."  She turned back to him, her face just a few inches from his own.  "I thought I might be a scout, with Feyndir."

 Atharil smiled sadly.  "Scouts work alone, lethallan.  Even should you choose that path, you would not be allowed to accompany Feyndir."

 Ryneth considered.  "A craftswoman, then?  I'm really good at weaving baskets." 

 "As is every da'len over the age of eight," he smirked.  "No, you have an adventurous spirit.  I do not think you would be content to sit in camp all day, hollowing bowls and mending fishing nets.  And, I think we can agree that anything to do with halla is out of the question."

 She frowned.  "They want nothing to do with me now that Hugo is born."

 "Ir abelas.  If it's any consolation, I still like you."

 "You like me too much, Atharil."  She blushed at the admission.

 "Yes, and you are clearly overfond of me."  He traced the pink in her cheek with one finger.  "It is no matter."

 Ryneth snorted.  "'No matter?'  Really?"

 Atharil took her hand.  "You love Feyndir," he said, stepping backwards over the peeling bark of a birch and drawing her along with him, "and I love Freylen.  We would never do anything to hurt them."

 "We already have."  

 "A moment of weakness - eyes up, that's it - and wholly my fault, as I told you before.  But you needn't worry, Ryneth.  If you want to be a hunter, I can still train you.  I won't overstep my bounds again."  His heel scraped against the next log, and he stepped up onto it without letting his gaze fall from hers.  "Would you like me to?"

 She followed him up onto the next section of the course, considering.  "Do you remember when we met?"

 He laughed, a short bark of surprise, and teetered momentarily.  "I would rather not.  In the beginning... I was not kind to you.  I very nearly slit your throat on one occasion."

 "You did, yes."  She squeezed his hand.  "But now, I don't know what I'd do without you.  No one else in Clan Lutharra has been there for me quite like you have, every step of the way."  She glanced at her feet.  "No pun intended."

 Atharil shook his head, grinning.  "Is there a point to all this flattery, or do you just enjoy making things awkward?"

 "I'm glad you're here, that's all."  She cleared her throat.  "And I would be honored to have the finest Dalish hunter this side of the Frostbacks as my trainer.  Yes, teach me to hunt, lethallin."

 The elf raised an eyebrow.  "Ara seranna-ma?"

 "What?  Oh."  She sighed.  "Please teach me to hunt, _hahren _.  Now who's making things awkward, eh?"__

____

____

 He tipped his head to the side and took a step back, leading her forward once again.  "I promise you will race through the treetops like the wind itself, da'len, and nothing you pursue will escape your arrows."  He paused.  "But we'll start small - ten more trips across this course.  Then maybe you can try it blindfolded."


	50. Chapter 50

 "I don't understand."

 Atharil sighed.  Over at the main campfire, the clan was roasting an entire august ram.  The smell of it set his stomach growling, and the good-natured banter of the elves gathered around made him lonely.  More than that, though, he was envious of the hunter who'd taken the beast.  She was standing on a stump re-enacting the chase, waving her arms about with enthusiasm as she recalled the kill.  Creators, how he itched to be alone in the woods, stalking something large and -

 "Hahren Atharil?"  The little boy patted his knee with one sticky hand.  "I don't understand how dirt can have a baby."

 He blinked, forcing his attention back to the gaggle of da'len sitting cross-legged on the ground before him.  "Well, uh, the sun was curious about the land, so he touched his head to her body.  And that's how Elgar'nan was born."

 An older girl snorted.  "Babies don't come from boys' heads.  They come from-"

 "Lirilla, please."  He held up a hand.  "Elgar'nan was not born in the usual way, all right?  But the land loved him very much, just as your parents love you, and for him she made -"

 "Babies come from mamaes' bellies!"  The sticky-fingered boy nodded, pleased with himself.

 "Yes, usually."  He reminded himself to be patient.

 "But the land doesn't have a belly, hahren." 

 "That... is true."  Atharil didn't have an immediate answer for the child.  A woman at the main fire shrieked with laughter and he frowned, annoyed at missing the joke.  "Perhaps it was magic.  Anyway, Elgar'nan is not an elf, he's a Creator, so the rules don't apply to him."

 "The Creators aren't elves?  Are they humans?"  Wide eyes all around.

 "What?  Of course not!  I mean, they're not _merely _elves -"__

____

____

 "My brother said you're going to have a flat-ear baby."  The little girl giggled behind her hand.

____

____

 "So what?"  Sticky-fingers leapt to Atharil's defence.  "At least it won't be a shem like Feyndir's!"

____

____

 "Atharil."  The voice in his ear was quiet but insistent.  He turned at once, grateful for the interruption.

____

____

 "Please tell me I'm needed elsewhere immediately."

____

____

 The hunter nodded, his face grave.  "Your, uh... the girl is asking for you.  I think it's time."

____

____

  
 Freylen was seated beside Ryneth and Feyndir at the fire, but she rose at once when she saw him approaching.  The look on his face must have told her everything she needed to know.

____

____

 "I'll get my bag."  Her staff was already in her hand.

____

____

 "Thank you for this."  He touched her hand.  "She has Marienne, but...."

____

____

 "But Marienne is no healer.  I know."  She smiled.  "Don't worry; I'm not about to let a cook deliver your baby, Atharil."

____

____

 "What if it isn't mine?"  The words were out before he had time to consider them.  Freylen was probably hoping the child wasn't his, and he couldn't blame her if she did.

____

____

 "Well, we'll know soon enough, won't we?"  She took a deep breath.  "Right... bag."

____

____

 Ryneth and Feyndir stood when she had gone.

____

____

 "We're coming, too," the scout announced cheerfully.  "Moral support and such."

____

____

 Ryneth smiled.  "You were so wonderful when Hugo was born, Atharil.  I'll do whatever I can to return the favor."  She laid a hand on his arm.  "Promise me, though, that you won't... that you won't make any dramatic decisions about the future tonight."

____

____

 Atharil hesitated.  If the child was born with pointed ears, he knew he wouldn't want to let Elodie out of his sight with it.  But he also knew he didn't want to go through the next several hours without his closest friends by his side.

____

____

 "All right," he conceded finally.  "It can wait, I suppose.  For tonight, let us just see the baby delivered safely."

____

____

 Ryneth smiled.  "Thank you, lethallin."

____

____

  
 The journey through the Graves to the Orlesian summer house had never felt so long.  The thick darkness of the forest forced them all to walk more slowly than usual, and Ryneth kept tripping over roots despite Freylen using her staff to help light their way.  Feyndir eventually carried her on his back so they could all make better time, but it still felt to Atharil as though they were moving at a snail's pace.  He took Freylen's hand in the gloom.

____

____

 "We're almost there, vhenan," she whispered to him.  "Everything will be fine."

____

____

 Feyndir shrugged Ryneth off as they approached the mansion, cupping his hands to his mouth.  The scout's birdcall echoed through the nearby trees, letting the hunters guarding the house know their clansmen drew near.  They waited to hear a reply before advancing  to the front gate.  Marienne scurried out to meet them, a lantern swinging from one hand.

____

____

 "This isn't a party, you know," she grumbled as she swung the gate open.  "Elodie asked for Atharil, not an entire Dalish delegation."

____

____

 "Our apologies," Ryneth offered.  "Atharil is a dear friend, and we brought -"

____

____

 "Maker!  You brought a mage!"  Marienne lifted her light higher, squinting at Freylen warily.

____

____

 "I was going to say 'healer', but yes."  Ryneth smiled sweetly, but the Orlesian was having none of it.

____

____

 "A mage, and a racially-confused human woman."  The cook's eyes narrowed as they travelled over Ryneth's clothing.  "Elodie told me about you."

____

____

 "All good things, I hope."

____

____

 Marienne shook her head.  "If His Lordship were here...."

____

____

 "He'd have us all killed on the spot, I'm sure."  Atharil was losing patience.  "Thank the Creators he's sound asleep in Val Royeaux.  Now take us to Elodie."

____

____

 "You must be the only people in Thedas who don't know," Marienne huffed as she turned and led them through the kitchen.  "Empress Celene is holding her peace talks at the Winter Palace tonight.  Lord Trevers and his family won't be at home sleeping - they'll be at the ball, along with everyone else of worth in Orlais.  Even the Inquisitor will be in attendance, if rumors are to be believed."  Her eyes sparkled at the thought.

____

____

 "We had heard there were negotiations planned," Feyndir said, a touch of indignation in his tone.  "We just didn't know they were taking place tonight."

____

____

 Marienne led the group along a wide hall, stopping in front of a nondescript panel.  She pushed it, and it swung in to reveal a narrow corridor on the other side.  The servant's passages:  Atharil had nearly forgotten about them.

____

____

 "I'm not surprised.  It must be difficult keeping up with important events when you're squatting in the middle of a forest."  She stepped through the doorway, and the others followed with varying levels of wonder and caution.  Within, the cook's lantern was the only source of light.  Freylen tapped her staff on the floor and changed that.

____

____

 "Why are we using this route?"  Atharil complained, swatting at a stray cobweb.  He could feel his chest tightening in the windowless space.

____

____

 "It's the quickest way," Marienne assured him, bringing the group up a spiral stair so small that even the elves had to turn their shoulders to fit.  Ryneth grunted as she squeezed her way up it.

____

____

 "Rabbit?  Are you all right?"  Feyndir was behind her on the steps.

____

____

 "I'm fine.  My legs are a bit sore, that's all."

____

____

 The scout turned to Atharil with a disapproving look.  "You might try not driving her to exhaustion, lethallin.  You know, she comes home and falls straight to sleep these days."

____

____

 "And?"  They had reached the top of the stairs, and Atharil thought he recognized the hallway in which they now stood.

____

____

 "And I might sometimes prefer her company of an evening."  Feyndir cleared his throat meaningfully.

____

____

 Marienne tsked.  "Andraste preserve me.  I don't need to hear about your unnatural couplings."  She gestured toward a familiar door.  "She's in there."

____

____

 Atharil pushed past her, shaking his head.  "The entire house is empty, and you're making Elodie labor in the servants' quarters?"

____

____

 "Childbirth is a messy affair, wood-elf."  She stuck out her chin.  "Have you ever tried getting blood out of silk sheets?"

____

____

 "Fen'Harel take the sheets." 

____

____

 He rapped lightly on the door, opening it as soon as Elodie responded.  The others waited in the hall as he slipped inside the cramped room, allowing his eyes a moment to adjust.  A single candle burned on a stool beside the sagging bed where she lay, smiling weakly up at him.

____

____

 "You're here.  Good.  I was worried the hour might be too late...."

____

____

 Atharil took her hand.  "I'm sorry we weren't quicker.  Ryneth doesn't see as well at night, so it took us a bit -"

____

____

 "Ryneth is here?"  She propped herself up on one elbow, brightening.  "Where is she?"

____

____

 "In the hall, with Feyndir and Freylen."  He eyed the thin straw mattress and threadbare pillow.  "I wouldn't lie with you in this miserable room, and I won't see you deliver here, either."

____

____

 She frowned.  "You brought Freylen?"

____

____

 He nodded.  "It's awkward, I know.  But she knows healing spells, and she's attended several births.  Including Hugo's."

____

____

 Elodie sighed.  "Sure, why not, then?  Let the mage assist if she's able."  She winced suddenly, closing her eyes as pain gripped her.  Atharil waited for the contraction to pass before lifting her from the bed, bringing the thin blankets along with her.  They trailed on the floor as he carried her out into the corridor.

____

____

 "Atharil, wait!" she protested, flushing.  "What are you doing?"

____

____

 "This mansion has eight bedrooms.  I'm bringing you somewhere more comfortable."  He nodded to the others.  "Marienne, show us a way out of here that doesn't involve creeping back through the walls.  Please."


	51. Chapter 51

 The room to which Marienne reluctantly brought them was smaller than Lady Colette's extravagant bedchamber, but still larger and considerably better furnished than the one they'd just left.  The cook rushed ahead to peel the thick, down-filled cover off the four-poster bed, tucking it away in a wardrobe before anyone could protest.  Freylen flicked her wrist, summoning a flame with which to light a fire in the hearth. 

 "You should try to walk around a bit," she told Elodie.  "Movement helps."

 Marienne shook her head.  "Don't be ridiculous - she should conserve her energy for pushing.  You'd have her worn out before the real work is even begun."  She propped pillows behind Elodie's shoulders as Atharil set the girl down, straightening the blankets around her.

 "What do _you _want, Elodie?" the hunter asked her gently.  "We're all here to support you; you have only to ask."__

____

____

 The city elf glanced about the room, meeting each of their eyes for a moment before she spoke.  "I don't know, to be honest.  I'm not used to having people looking after me... I suppose I could use a glass of water?"

____

____

 "Done."  Ryneth clapped a hand on Feyndir's arm.  "Come on, vhenan, we're off to the kitchen."

____

____

 Marienne frowned.  "I'll come along and direct you to the correct pitcher.  Someone has been using Her Ladyship's crystal in her absence."  She wrung her hands as though she'd just revealed an act of treason.

____

____

  
 Another cramp took hold as soon as the door shut behind them.  Elodie sat bolt upright, one hand over her stomach, the color draining from her face.

____

____

 "Breathe," Atharil reminded her softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking her other hand between both of his.  "It will soon ease."

____

____

 A tense moment passed, then another, until finally Elodie exhaled in relief.  "You're not bad at this," she told him shyly, "but perhaps you and Feyndir could wait downstairs when he returns?"

____

____

 Atharil was confused.  "I thought you wanted me here.  You sent for me."

____

____

 She blushed.  "Of course I want you here... just not _right _here."  She pulled the rough fabric of her nightshirt closer about her neck.  "There are some places a man just doesn't belong, Atharil."__

_____ _

_____ _

 "You can't honestly believe that."  It was as if the breath had been knocked from his chest.  "I need to see the child born, Elodie.  If she's mine, I should be with her when she draws her first breath."  He felt Freylen's hand on his shoulder.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Vhenan, Elodie is not Dalish, remember?  Her ways are not ours."  He thought he detected a slight smugness in her tone, but he couldn't be sure.

_____ _

_____ _

 "You'd rather I wait outside, then?  Just... stand around and do nothing?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Elodie looked apologetic, but she nodded.  "I'd feel more comfortable if you weren't in the room, yes."

_____ _

_____ _

 "All right, then."  He stood up, uncertain.  "It seems wrong to me, but if it's what you want...."

_____ _

_____ _

 Freylen smiled reassuringly.  "Ryneth and I will take good care of her, beloved.  I swear to you."

_____ _

_____ _

 Elodie nodded.  "And Marienne."

_____ _

_____ _

 The First arched an eyebrow.  "Yes.  She'll be here, too, I guess."  She turned back to Atharil.  "When the child is born...."

_____ _

_____ _

 "I want to see it with my own eyes, either way."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Of course."  She kissed his cheek.  "Try not to worry.  I'll come to you as soon as there's news."

_____ _

_____ _

  
 The door reopened a few seconds later, the others returning as if on cue.  Ryneth was carrying a tray with cups and a simple glass pitcher of water on it.  She set it on the stand beside Elodie's bed and poured the pregnant woman a drink, handing it to her with a smile.  Atharil motioned to Feyndir. 

_____ _

_____ _

 "Come with me." 

_____ _

_____ _

 They stepped out into the hallway together, Atharil holding aloft a short candlestick for light.  "Elodie just told me she doesn't want me in the room during her labor."

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir was silent a moment, digesting the idea.  "Well, lethallin, city elves do things differently.  You already knew that."

_____ _

_____ _

 He scowled.  "I could help her if she'd let me, as I helped Ryneth."

_____ _

_____ _

 The scout's eyes glittered in the darkness.  "Rabbit has such affection for you.  I'm pleased  
you were by her side that day."

_____ _

_____ _

 "I...well.  Thank you."  Atharil could feel a guilty blush creeping up the back of his neck, and held the candle farther from his face. 

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir studied him for a moment before moving off down the hall. 

_____ _

_____ _

 "Let's head to the library," he called over his shoulder.  "I want to see whether this Orlesian lord owns anything written in the common tongue."

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil followed, relieved at the change of topic.  "I always forget you can read."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Then you've also forgotten the miserable year I spent training as a Second."  He found a staircase and started down.  "I wish I could."

_____ _

_____ _

 The hunter laughed.  "Keeper Maeven couldn't replace you fast enough when Freylen manifested her magic."

_____ _

_____ _

 "And I was thankful for it."  He reached the bottom of the stairs and tried a series of doors, but none of them led to the library.  "Creators, Atharil; do you suppose the shemlen ever get lost in their own houses?"

_____ _

_____ _

 "Perhaps they carry a ball of twine with them," Atharil joked.  "They tie one end to their bedpost, and -"  He stopped mid-sentence.  "Did you hear that?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir nodded, crouching instinctively.  Atharil blew out his candle.  He pointed to a window that looked onto the front garden and they crept toward it together, peering cautiously over the sill.  At first, they saw nothing, though the sound of men yelling grew steadily louder and closer.  Then, under the light of a full moon, a dark shape dropped from one of the trees that pressed up against the courtyard wall.  It landed with a crunch on the gravel just inside the gate, unmoving.  Atharil stood up.

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir yanked him back down.  "Wait," he hissed.

_____ _

_____ _

 The front gate clanged as it swung inward, narrowly missing the body of the fallen elf. 

_____ _

_____ _

 "We got one of them, boys!"  The chevalier slid down from his charger, plate mail gleaming golden in the moonlight.  He put his boot to the corpse, nudging it onto its back, and stooped to retrieve his arrow.  "Fucking Dalish, just as Lukas said."

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil and Feyndir watched in horror as more Orlesian knights followed the first, quickly filling the garden with stomping horses and raucous conversation.

_____ _

_____ _

 "If only we could do the same to that bitch Briala!"

_____ _

_____ _

 "We will, my friend.  You wait and see."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Take the ears for your trophy room, Ser Edgard!"

_____ _

_____ _

 The first chevalier laughed.  "Hardly worth the effort."  Still, he unclasped a short knife from his belt.

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil clutched at Feyndir's arm.  "Who is it?" he whispered frantically.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Hard to tell.  The cloak, though... it might be Caran." 

_____ _

_____ _

 "Fenedhis...."  The hunter turned away from the window, ashen.  "What are we going to do?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir frowned.  "Not fight them, that's for certain.  I counted eight, plus a few servants."

_____ _

_____ _

 "There are four of us here who can wield weapons.  Those aren't such bad odds."

_____ _

_____ _

 The scout shook his head.  "Against chevaliers in heavy armor?  No.  We need to flee before they discover us, disappear into the woods."

_____ _

_____ _

 "And what about Elodie?" 

_____ _

_____ _

 They heard a key turning in the lock then, and Feyndir motioned back toward the stairs.  The elves retreated just as the front door was thrown open, spilling light across the foyer's marble floor.  The master's son stepped over the threshold, his yellow-feathered helm tucked under one arm.   
   
"Marienne!" he called, his voice booming through the silent mansion.  "Light the fires and fetch us drinks - the war is over!"


	52. Chapter 52

 "Maker, if they find you here...."  Marienne bunched her apron in her hands, wringing it until her knuckles whitened. 

 "They won't, unless you give us away."  Atharil took the nervous woman by the shoulders.  "You have to go to them, and you have to appear calm."

 Freylen eyed the cook doubtfully.  "She's shaking like a leaf, vhenan.  They'll take one look at her and know something is wrong."

 Feyndir shook his head.  "We have to risk it.  If she doesn't answer, they'll come looking for her."

 "What if Marienne hides behind the truth?"  Ryneth was holding Elodie's hand, the elf's face twisted in silent pain.  "If the chevaliers ask why she seems upset, she can tell them Elodie is in labor and she's worried for her."

 Marienne blanched.  "Oh, I don't think I should mention Elodie.  His Lordship doesn't want her condition known."

 "All the better," Atharil insisted.  "Hint at what's happening, and that asshole Edgard - may Fen'Harel drag him into the Abyss - might change the topic.  I assume he doesn't want his friends to know he may have sired an elf-blooded bastard?"

 Marienne looked doubtful.  "It's his parents who are embarrassed by the situation.  I don't know that Ser Edgard actually cares -"

 "MARIENNE!" 

 Everyone in the room startled; even Elodie gave a small cry that had nothing to do with her pains.

 "Go now!" Feyndir hissed, opening the bedroom door.  Marienne swallowed and stepped forward, only to be halted again by Atharil.  The hunter leaned forward to whisper into her ear.

 "Don't even consider betraying us.  If you do, my first arrow will be for you."

 

 Feyndir closed the door behind her, shutting it as softly as possible.  Then he leaned his back against it and exhaled, running one hand through his hair.

 "We need to get out of here," he said, repeating what he'd told Atharil downstairs.  "Can Elodie travel?"

 Freylen laughed tersely at the suggestion.  "She'd been in labor for hours before we got here.  At this point...no.  I don't think that's an option."  As if to echo the sentiment, Elodie let out a sharp whine and clutched at Ryneth's hand.

 "Don't...don't leave me here," she gasped.  "Not with him."

 "We won't," Freylen assured her, looking around the group.  "We'll figure something out."

 Feyndir rubbed at his temples.  "They came out here to celebrate the success of the peace talks.  I think most of them are half drunk already, and they're calling for more.  Maybe we'll get lucky, and they'll drink themselves into a stupor before they realize anything's amiss."

 Atharil nodded.  "And then we'll cut their throats as they sleep."  He fingered the dagger on his thigh.

 "No, lethallin."  Feyndir sighed heavily.  "Then we'll collect Caran's body, and pray they don't stir again until we're long gone."

 "I like Atharil's plan better." Ryneth gave a wry smile.

 "Don't encourage him, rabbit.  Dalish who go looking for trouble usually find it."

 She rubbed Elodie's back in circles, thinking.  "We need to keep an eye on Marienne.  I don't trust her not to confess everything if those knights get suspicious."

 Elodie held up a hand for attention, gathering strength to speak.  "The walls," she managed finally.  "The servants' passages.  You can listen from...mmmhm...from inside."

 Atharil looked at Feyndir.  "I saw an entrance at the end of the hall.  If we keep quiet, we should be able to get close enough to overhear their conversations."

 "No, that sounds too dangerous."  Everyone but Elodie turned to Freylen in surprise.  The First was twisting her staff in her hands, the wood damp with her sweat.  "What if they catch you?  You'd be trapped."

 "We'll be careful, I promise."  Atharil touched her shoulder, and she laid a hand over his.  "Are you all right, vhenan?"

 "I just...I just want you to be safe.  If I lost you -"  She blushed suddenly, as if she'd just remembered the others were present.  "I'll be fine.  Do what needs doing."

 The hunter kissed her cheek.  "We'll be careful," he repeated.  "Don't be afraid, Freylen." 

 She pushed him away, embarrassed.  "I'm not afraid, I'm...concerned.  Appropriately and understandably concerned and worried.  That's all."

 He nodded.  "Don't worry, then.  Focus on Elodie - try to keep her as quiet as possible for as long as possible."  He turned to the city elf, apologetic.  "I'm sorry even to ask it, but the less noise you make, the less likely those men are to notice or remember that you're here."

 "I understand."  She closed her eyes, and Atharil noted with a mix of alarm and anticipation that her pains were indeed coming faster and stronger.  Freylen was right - Elodie couldn't leave the mansion now until the baby was born, come what may.


	53. Chapter 53

 The two elves followed the sounds of rough laughter, moving quietly through the narrow passages until they located the drawing room.  There, firelight shone through seams in the wood panelling, and a small knothole offered them a limited view of the room on the other side of the wall.

 "Four... five chevaliers," Feyndir whispered.  "Marienne is with them."

 Atharil gave a small nod of acknowledgement.  "And the rest?"

 The scout shrugged helplessly.  "Elsewhere."

 One of the knights, a fair-haired man with a receding hairline and a flowered mask, raised an empty goblet over his head and waved it around.  "Rabbit, my glass needs refilled," he called from his seat beside the hearth, his speech slightly slurred.  "Be quick."

 Marienne rushed over to him, an open bottle of wine in hand.  She poured the drink with trembling hands, a few drops sloshing over the sides in her nervousness. 

 "Ser Edgard, what's wrong with your elf?"  The chevalier dabbed at his trousers with a handkerchief, annoyance in his tone.  "These breeches are velvet!"

 Edgard walked over to the man, waving a hand dismissively.  "Marienne is a cook; she belongs in the kitchen.  I'm afraid this summer house isn't staffed to receive guests properly at the moment, Ser Louis.  Try to consider her ineptitude part of the charm of an impromptu gathering in the country."

 Ser Louis snorted.  "First Dalish attack us on the path, and now I'm being served drinks by kitchen staff.  You have a strange idea of 'charm', my friend."

 Edgard tilted his head and tutted.  "You don't find Marienne charming?  I think she has a certain appeal, in the right light."

 Behind the wall, Feyndir laid a steadying hand on Atharil's arm. 

 "I might, any other evening.  But I've already seen enough knife-ears for one day."  Ser Louis scowled into his drink before lifting it to his lips.  "Someone should send that carcass in the garden to Inquisitor Lavellan - maybe it's some relation."

 Feyndir blinked, trying to make sense of the words.  The knight's  accent was thick, and he'd been drinking.  He might've said something else.

 "Lavellan?"  Atharil's whisper was so loud that the scout jumped, afraid the chevaliers would overhear.  "As in _Clan _Lavellan?  The Inquisitor is a Dalish elf?"__

____

____

 "No."  He could feel his heartbeat in his ears.  "Someone would have... we would have heard.  Wouldn't we?"

____

____

 In the drawing room, Edgard took the bottle from Marienne and motioned toward the door.  She made a small curtsy, her relief obvious even beneath the half-mask she'd donned since leaving the upstairs bedroom.  She slipped away before he could change his mind.

____

____

 "Cheer up," the knight told his brother-in-arms.  "The war is over at last - that's the important thing."  He passed the open bottle of wine to another of the chevaliers, who took a long swig from it.  "The Inquisitor will return to hunting Venatori and closing Fade rifts now, and leave Orlais in peace."

____

____

 "A peace brokered by a savage."  Ser Louis shook his head.  "Forgive me - you're right.  We should be celebrating.  I don't suppose you have a bard about the place?  Washing windows, maybe?"

____

____

 Ser Edgard laughed.  "There are only two servants here, apart from the few we brought with us.  The house would have been entirely empty, in fact, if not for a certain... inconvenient situation."

____

____

 "Oh?"  Ser Louis sat up straighter in his chair.  "Do I sense a scandal?"

____

____

 Feyndir glanced at Atharil, willing him to remain quiet whatever came next.

____

____

 "Hardly.  My little sister's elven companion is pregnant, that's all.  She's around here somewhere, probably about ready to pop."  He looked about, as if Elodie might already be in the room and he'd simply failed to notice her.

____

____

 "That's it?"  Ser Louis seemed disappointed.  "Not much of a story there, my friend.  Damned rabbits are constantly climbing on each other."

____

____

 Edgard smirked.  "Well, I suppose there is a _little _more to the tale.  Let's just say the brat's ears might not be the expected shape."  He folded his arms, waiting for his meaning to register.__

_____ _

_____ _

 "You dog!"  The blond chevalier chuckled.  "And your parents found out, and sent her away to have the bastard?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Ser Edgard nodded.  "The elven bitch complained to my sister, and my sister told our parents.  My mother nearly fainted at the thought of an elf-blooded baby being born under her roof."

_____ _

_____ _

 Louis took another sip of his wine.  "Why not just dismiss her, then?  It happens often enough."

_____ _

_____ _

 "My sister is accustomed to her."  He shrugged.  "She refused to replace her, and she's furious at me for causing this whole -"

_____ _

_____ _

 A muffled cry, audible even in the servants' corridor, interrupted Edgard's next words.  Feyndir tensed at the sound, and saw Atharil do likewise.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Fenedhis," the hunter breathed.  "Sylaise... Mother Mythal... help her."  He squeezed his eyes shut, his brow furrowing with the force of his prayer.  "Andruil, hear me."

_____ _

_____ _

 In all their years of friendship, Feyndir had never heard Atharil appeal to the Mother of Hares outside of a hunt.  He wasn't even sure the hunter believed what the clan's elders claimed, that the ritual nature of his conception meant he was favored by the goddess.  Now, though, Atharil reached for her with all his will, beseeching her intercession.  The idea that the Huntress might actually respond sent a chill down Feyndir's spine.

_____ _

_____ _

 "What was that?"  Ser Edgard turned towards the outer hall, pointing.  "Was that....?"

_____ _

_____ _

 "Sounds like your little elven wench is moaning for you once again, Ser Edgard."  Ser Louis  laughed into his glass.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Maker!"  For one brief moment, the chevalier sounded concerned.  "She's having the child right now?"  He shook his head, clearing it.  "Of all the rotten timing.  We shouldn't have come here, after all."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Oh, I don't know about that."  Ser Louis tilted his head, amused.  "This night is getting more entertaining by the second."

_____ _

_____ _

 "I suppose I should... I should go and see, shouldn't I?  Whether it's born yet, if it's mine?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir could hear the breath catch in Atharil's throat, a strangled sound as though he were being choked by an invisible hand.

_____ _

_____ _

 The other chevalier waved a gloved hand.  "I wouldn't recommend it.  But if you must, at least wait until the screaming stops and someone's cleaned the creature up."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Marienne was meant to serve as midwife, but she's been with us...."  Edgard frowned.  "Why didn't she mention this?"  He didn't wait for an answer, instead turning on his heel and stalking out of the room.  Ser Louis raised a glass after him.

_____ _

_____ _

 "To the charms of the country, Ser Edgard!"


	54. Chapter 54

 Atharil nearly knocked Feyndir over in his haste to follow the chevalier. 

 "Wait!"  The scout grabbed at his clansman's arm as he shoved past, but Atharil twisted free.

 "Stay here, lethallin.  I'll surprise him when he's alone, before he finds the others."

 "Atharil, this man isn't some lumberjack like those fools in Drayton!  A chevalier is not easily killed."

 The hunter flashed a smile he hoped looked more convincing than it felt.  "Stay here, and keep an eye on the rest of these assholes."  He patted his friend's shoulder.  "I have this."

 

 Atharil raced back the way they'd come, mindful to keep his footfalls light upon the floorboards.  It was impossible to track Edgard's path through the sprawling house, but he didn't need to.  He already knew where Elodie's cries would lead the chevalier; he only had to get there first.  Get there first, and be ready.

 Breathless, he stumbled out of the cramped servants' passage and back into the wide, dark hallway on the upper floor.  Candlelight spilled from under the door of the occupied guestroom, and the hunter could hear both Freylen and Ryneth within, speaking to Elodie in hushed but urgent tones.  He resisted the urge to go to them, instead creeping past the room and trying the door of the neighboring chamber.  It pushed inward easily, and the elf slipped inside.

 Atharil paused a moment to look around.  This bedroom was much the same as the one beside it, full of overstuffed furniture and gilded everything.  Only the dragonling's head mounted over the empty fireplace impressed him at all, and he hadn't time to appreciate even that.  Already, there were footsteps on the stairs.

 Reaching behind him for an arrow, the hunter took a knee beside the door.  He'd left it slightly ajar, allowing himself a narrow view of the hallway just outside Elodie's room.  Now, he took a deep breath and drew his bow in the darkness, waiting.

 Ser Edgard reached the top step and hesitated, just for the barest second.  Then he walked on, his stride confident and regular, his boots echoing along the empty corridor.  Atharil raised the bowstring to his cheek.

 Without breaking stride, the knight kicked the unlatched door open with such force that it bounced off the wall behind it.  Startled, Atharil loosed his arrow.  It deflected harmlessly off the chestplate Edgard still wore over his doublet.  The chevalier didn't blink, but reached blindly into the darkness for his adversary.  He caught Atharil by the hair and dragged him out into the hall.

 "What's this?" he asked, keeping the hunter at arm's length.  "A Dalish in my bedchamber?  I suppose that's the trouble with summer houses; you leave them vacant for any length of time, and vermin move in."

 Atharil twisted in the chevalier's grip, cursing at him in elvish as he struggled to rise to his feet.  The man wrinkled his nose and drew his sword.

 "You're wasting your breath, knife-ear.  I don't speak horseshit."

 "Leave them alone!"  The elf kicked at him desperately, bare toes against metal greaves. 

 Ser Edgard turned briefly toward the lighted room.  "There're more of you in there with my little rabbit, aren't there?  Maker, Elodie certainly has been a naughty girl."

 Atharil made use of the brief distraction.  Unable to look down, he felt for the dagger on his thigh and unsheathed it, slashing at the space above his head.

 "Aghh, you nug-humper!"  Tufts of the hunter's pale blond hair floated to the floor as the knight pulled away, staring at his sliced hand.  "Son of a -"  He swung his sword, but the elf was already retreating down the hall, heading for the stairs.  Edgard wavered, throwing one last look toward the lighted room, and then pursued him.

 

 Atharil ran blindly, thinking only to keep the chevalier occupied and away from Elodie for as long as possible.  His scalp ached where the knight had held him, and his heart raced at the realization that the human was stronger than him.  He couldn't allow himself to be caught again.

 Unfortunately, he'd dropped his bow in the bedroom.  Without it, the quiver on his back was worse than useless.  The weight of it would only slow him down, and so he unfastened his harness and let it fall, arrows sliding out and skidding across the marble floor.  He could hear them crunching beneath Ser Edgard's boots.

 Through a door, through a room, out another door.  There was scarcely time to register where he was before he was someplace else, but eventually Atharil found himself in the dining hall.  The cavernous room was empty, but a fire was lit in the enormous hearth.  Its soft glow reflected off the stone walls and hanging tapestries.  And in the center of the room, beneath a massive chandelier, stretched a long table.

 Atharil leapt onto it, pulling one of the heavy, cushioned dining chairs up after him.  He ran down the center of the table dragging the chair behind him, its legs scraping grooves into the polished surface.  The door behind him burst open as he climbed up onto the seat.

 "Do you think the baby is yours?"  Edgard pulled off his mask as he walked across the room, flinging it away carelessly.  His face beneath was olive-skinned and handsome, his narrowed eyes a soulful brown.  "Is that why your clan is crawling all over this place, putting yourselves in danger for some city 'flat-ear'?  That's what you call her, isn't it?"

 "I call her Elodie," Atharil crouched, eyeing the chandelier above him, catching his breath.

 "You know I fucked her, too, yes?"  The chevalier grimaced.  "I only hope I was there first; Maker knows what sorts of diseases you're carrying.  You fancy yourself in love with her, I suppose?"

 "Why do you care?"  Atharil jumped for the chandelier and missed, the chair teetering beneath his feet.  The knight was approaching at a walk, but he was closing in.  Soon, he'd be within a sword's reach.

 "I don't, really.  I'm just trying to decide if I should kill you right away, or wait and let her watch you die."

 "Assuming you can catch me, shem."  He leapt again, and this time his fingertips caught the metal ring around the base of the fixture.  It swung violently as he pulled himself up onto it, clinging to the heavy chain in the middle, displacing candle stubs that shattered on the stone floor below.

 Ser Edgard sheathed his blade, a look of amusement on his face. 

 "And where do you expect to go from there, elf?  I have you treed, so to speak."

 Atharil looked up, where exposed beams criss-crossed the length of the room.  At least he'd have room to move.  He started climbing just as more chevaliers entered the room.

  
   
 Behind the drawing room wall, Feyndir watched and waited in nervous silence.  One of the chevaliers finished off a bottle of wine and slumped against the arm of a sofa, snoring softly.  Another wandered out of the room, presumably in search of more drink.  Ser Louis stared into the fire, his expression unreadable behind his mask, and all the while the faint cries from the upstairs bedroom continued.

 "Bring your bows!"  The chevalier who'd left suddenly burst back into the room, breathless.  "Edgard has a Dalish cornered in the dining room, and it's climbed into the rafters!"

 Ser Louis was on his feet at once, though he swayed slightly.  "More of the blessed Herald's family?" he grumbled.  "The creature is probably wondering what happened to its invitation to the ball."

 Feyndir felt the blood rush from his extremities.  Still, he forced himself to keep silent, waiting to move until Louis had left the room with the excited knight.  The only remaining chevalier who was still conscious made to follow them, stumbling unevenly across the drawing room, one hand outstretched to steady himself.  Feyndir slid open the panelled door and stepped out behind him, dagger ready.

 It was almost too easy.  He felt a twinge of guilt as he reached around and slid the blade across the man's throat, stretching up on his toes to match the human's height.  Blood gurgled as the knight tried to scream, clawing at the gash in his neck in fear and confusion.  He turned, searching with wide eyes for his attacker, but Feyndir had already moved on.

 The last chevalier didn't even stir when his brother-in-arm's body hit the floor, knocking over an inlaid table on its way down.  The scout stood over his sleeping form for a moment, blood still dripping slowly from the end of his short blade onto the patterned rug.  The young man had removed his elaborate mask before passing out, and there was something in the shape of his face that reminded the elf of Hendry. 

 It was stupid, he knew.  If their roles were reversed, the knight would kill him without a second thought.  And before Ryneth, before Hugo, Feyndir might have done the same to him.  Now, it was harder.

 "Ir abelas," he whispered, tilting the man's head back gently.  The chevalier grunted, his eyelids flickering, and the elf made the necessary cut.  One smooth motion, and the Orlesian slipped away without even awakening.  A quiet death, if not exactly a noble one.  Feyndir wiped his dagger on a velvet cushion and went to find Atharil.

 Six, he counted mentally.  Six remaining.


	55. Chapter 55

 "Nnnghh!"  Ryneth wondered whether Freylen could heal a crushed hand as Elodie tightened her grip once again.   

 "Breathe.  You're doing great."  The First looked up from between the city elf's legs and met Ryneth's eyes, her face pale.  "Can I speak to you a moment?"

 They stepped to the far side of the room, their backs to the laboring woman.  Freylen dipped her hands into a basin of pink water, deepening the shade with fresh blood.

 "You see all of this?" she said, her voice low.

 Ryneth nodded.  "There's quite a bit on the sheets, too.  That's not normal, is it?"

 "Not before the baby's born, no.  Something is wrong."

 Ryneth remembered Hugo's lifeless body, lying limp in Freylen's arms.  "Can you... is there anything you can do?"

 Freylen took a deep breath.  "I don't know.  I'm hoping I won't have to -"

 She broke off at the sudden sound of raised voices in the hall outside.  One was unfamiliar, though the accent was distinctly Orlesian.  The other was Atharil, cursing to make a Keeper blush.

 Elodie cried out again at the sound of the chevalier's voice. 

 "Oh Maker, that's him!  That's Ser Edgard.  I have to...."  She swung her legs around with effort, trying to get up.

 "What are you doing?"  Freylen was back at her side in an instant.  "You're having a baby!  You cannot get up.  For anyone."

 Ryneth slipped to the door while the First talked Elodie back onto the bed.  She opened it a crack, peeking out in the direction of the sounds, but saw nothing.

 "They're gone."

 Freylen looked shaken.  "I should go after them.  Atharil needs help, and where is Feyndir?  I have to do something."  She picked up her staff.

 "You are already doing something."  Ryneth glanced at Elodie.  "She needs you here.  You're the only one... the only one who knows what to do.  If it comes to it."

 The First's face crumpled.  "But I can't just... I can't lose him, Ryneth!"  She ran a trembling, bloodstained hand through her hair. 

 "You won't lose him."  Ryneth fastened her quiver to her back as she spoke.  "I will go -"

 "No!"  Freylen's large eyes grew even wider.  "Stay with me; you don't have the experience to fight chevaliers, sister."

 "Well, there's only one way to get it."  She picked up her bow and pointed at a dresser.  "When I'm gone, push that in front of the door.  It won't stop anyone for long, but it will buy you time to gather your magic." 

 "Please be careful."  Freylen clutched her staff tighter, her knuckles whitening against the dark wood.

 Ryneth nodded at Elodie, who was clutching the sheets as her pain crested yet again.  "Just take care of her, Freylen.  Take care of both of them, and I'll see you when this is over."

 

 In the dining room, Atharil was busy dodging arrows.  Back and forth he ran across the rafters, while below Ser Edgard and another knight took turns firing at him from a shared bow.

 "You couldn't hit the broad side of an aravel!" the elf shouted down to them as another arrow stuck in the beam below his feet.

 "My apologies.  I'm much better with a sword."  Ser Edgard handed the bow back to his friend.  "Why not come down, and I'll show you?"

 "Or you could toss me a bow, and I could show you something."  Atharil flinched as an arrow whizzed by his face.

 "How about a deal, then?"  Ser Edgard grinned.  "Come down, and I give you my word as a chevalier that, should Elodie deliver an elven baby, I won't smother it with a pillow." 

 Atharil faltered momentarily in his steps.  "Even you would not do such a thing."

 "It depends how angry you make me."  The knight shrugged.  "Surrender, and I might be willing to offer your bastard a position in my household one day.  Think of it, elf; your son might empty my chamber pot.  Or perhaps your daughter might stoke my fires."  Beside him, his companion stifled a chuckle.

 Atharil felt his face flush, then grow cold.  He still had his dagger; if he fell upon the knight at the right moment....

 He didn't get the chance.  The door burst open again, and two more chevaliers ran into the room.  Atharil recognized Ser Louis at once, and had just time to register his face before the knight beside him loosed an arrow that grazed the hunter's arm.  He clutched at the wound, leaning against a nearby post for support.

 "Very good!"  Edgard clapped his hands together and addressed Atharil again.  "Last chance, heathen.  Surrender, and no harm will come to your orphan."

 Atharil clenched his teeth against the pain.  "My orphan?"

 "Well, of course.  You don't really expect to walk out of here, do you?"  He started to laugh but stopped suddenly, pointing with urgency toward one of the walls.  The knight who'd shot Atharil nodded and crept toward a panel with a small, unobtrusive handle set into it.

 "Feyndir!"  Atharil shouted.  "They hear you!  They know you're -"

 The knight yanked open the door to the servants' corridor and entered sword-first, only to stumble backwards a moment later, a black-feathered arrow protruding from one eye.  Atharil recognized the fletching at once.

 "Ryneth!  Get down!"   
   
 He had barely gotten the words out when the other three chevaliers began attacking the wall itself, thrusting their blades blindly along it length.  The thin wood splintered and broke apart under their onslaught, revealing glimpses of the cramped space behind it.  Ser Louis reached in and grabbed something near the floor, yanking his arm back with force.  The whole section of panelling ripped apart as he dragged Ryneth out of the passage by one bloodied ankle.

 "Another Dalish, and this one's a female."  He put the tip of his blade to her chest as she glared up at him, her breath coming fast.  "What do you think, Edgard?  Should I off her now, or shall we keep her around for entertainment?"

 "May the Dread Wolf take you."  She pulled a knife from her belt, but the chevalier brought his boot down on her arm, pinning it to the floor.  The weapon fell from her hand.

 "Feisty, isn't she?"  Ser Edgard shook his head.  "Run her through.  Damned knife-ear just killed Ser Alain."

 "She's not a knife-ear!"  Atharil closed his eyes, hoping Ryneth would forgive him.  "She's human, just like you."

 Ser Louis snorted in disbelief, but flicked her long hair back with his sword.

 "Holy Andraste...."  He stepped away in shock as Ryneth raised herself up on one elbow, still scowling.

 "Ma serannas, Atharil," she said, her tone an accusation.

 "Ir abelas.  I would rather you remain a live shemlen than watch you die an elf's death, lethallan."

 "Touching."  Ser Edgard looked from one Dalish to the other.  "Baffling, but touching."  He took her by the arm, pulling her roughly to her feet.  "I'm not in the habit of executing women, however bizarre the circumstance.  We'll tie you up and bring you back to Val Royeaux, where -"

 "Dirthara-ma."  Ryneth had palmed a splinter of the shattered wall, and now she drove it into the narrow space between the chevalier's chest plate and his fauld.

 Ser Edgard doubled over, clutching at his abdomen.  "You little bitch!"

 Ryneth snatched up her bow and hopped onto the table before the other two knights realized what had happened.  Seeing her, Atharil raced back to the chandelier and dropped onto it, reaching down to grab her hands.  Swords flashed beneath her feet as he pulled her up after him.

 "Well, that was impressive," he said when they were both safely up in the rafters.  He pointed to Ryneth's bow.  "And now we can shoot back at them."

 "Atharil?"  She stood up carefully on the beam, drawing an arrow from the quiver still on her back.

 "Yes, my friend?"

 "Don't ever call me 'shemlen' again."


	56. Chapter 56

 "Elodie, you have to push harder!"

 "I...nnnnghh...I'm trying!" 

 "Creators, there's so much blood...."  Elodie's blood, so heavy on the bedsheets that it was pooling before it could soak through.  Her own, running freely from deep slashes on both forearms as she reached desperately for the forbidden magic once more.  They couldn't lose the baby, whatever the cost.  If it was Atharil's, she couldn't live with herself.  He wanted this child so badly....

 "Take my hand, Elodie."

 The city elf hesitated briefly at the sight of Freylen's blood-drenched palm, then closed her eyes and pressed her own into it.  The First reached beneath the sheets with her other hand, seeking the top of the child's head within its mother's body.  There was no spell to follow; what little she'd learned of blood magic had been gleaned from ancient scrolls the Keeper kept in a locked chest.  Tirsas didn't even know she'd seen them, and they'd mentioned no specifics that might help her now.  Still, she sensed she was doing it right.

 More than sensed it.  There was a whisper, not in her ears but in her mind, the words unintelligible but their meaning clear.  She had only to concentrate on them.

 And that was the difficult part.  Because she couldn't stop thinking of Atharil, struggling with the chevalier in the hallway.  She couldn't stop wondering what had happened to Feyndir, and whether she'd been right to let Ryneth leave the room.  What if they were hurt?  What if they were waiting for her to rescue them?

  _What if they're dead? ___

____

____

 Freylen shook her head, trying to push the thought away, but it clung to her.  It showed her flashes of Atharil's lifeless body, his pale eyes staring unseeing, his heart pierced by a chevalier's blade.  Yet through the vision, as if through a haze, she also felt the baby's heartbeat strengthen, felt Elodie's torn body weaving itself back together. 

____

____

 "Are you all right?" 

____

____

 Dimly, Freylen was aware that Elodie was trying to pull her hand away, and it angered her.  What was the stupid girl thinking?  She needed the connection.  The magic demanded it.  She gripped the city elf's hand more tightly, and heard her cry out in pain.

____

____

 "I need it."  Why did her voice sound so strange?  An image of Feyndir, lying broken on a marble floor, filled her head.  Ryneth was sprawled across his chest, a dagger still in her lifeless hand.  Someone had removed both of their ears.  "Stop that!"

____

____

 "Stop what?"  Elodie sounded terrified.  "Freylen?"

____

____

 "Push!"

____

____

 The Orlesian pushed with her body, and the First pulled with her will.  Magic and muscle moved together to bring the child forth, mewling and covered in both women's blood.  Freylen placed the infant on Elodie's stomach and backed away, her head spinning.

____

____

 "I have to get to Atharil."  She lurched toward the door, waving a hand at the dresser she'd placed before it.  It skidded backwards across the room and toppled over, the crash causing Elodie to clutch the newborn against her breast.

____

____

 "Wait!  You can't just -"  Freylen looked at her, and Elodie broke off mid-sentence.

____

____

 "I have to save them."  The floor seemed to shift beneath her and she reached out to steady herself, leaving a trail of blood along the wall as she stumbled out into the darkened hallway.


	57. Chapter 57

 Feyndir finally found the library, completely by accident and without time to peruse the collection.  As soon as he'd left the drawing room he'd been spotted by a pair of chevaliers; his hastily-fired arrows had barely dented their armor, and they'd given chase through the darkened mansion until at last they had him cornered in the long, narrow room.  He'd flipped a desk and now he crouched behind it, shouting elven curses at them as he loosed more arrows over the top and around the sides of his makeshift fortification.  His words seemed to give the knights more pause than the projectiles themselves.  They were city boys, the scout surmised, and had never really heard an elf speaking in his own tongue.  The sound of it held enough mystery to give them pause, if only for a time.

 Some of the Dalish hunters who'd been guarding the mansion had escaped - of that Feyndir was fairly certain.  They would return eventually with help, but the journey to Clan Lutharra's encampment and back would take hours.  It would likely all be over by then.  He reached for another arrow, and found his quiver empty.

 "Fenedhis lasa!"  He could hear the knights shuffling behind the couch where they'd taken shelter, preparing to advance.  He unsheathed the dagger at his side and touched a hand to the lines of his vallaslin.  "Mythal embrace me."

 They hauled him up over the desk by the back of his tunic, the larger of the two lifting the Dalish off the floor as though he weighed nothing.  Feyndir slashed at both of them madly, his short blade glinting in the moonlight that streamed through the long windows, but to no avail.  They both wore plate, and he hadn't enough control to find the gaps in their armor before the smaller chevalier grabbed his wrist and twisted.  The dagger clattered to the floor, useless.

 "Sneaky little shit."  The knight threw him against a wall of shelves so hard that Feyndir saw lights before his eyes as loosened books rained down on him.  The soldier stooped to pick up the fallen dagger, bringing it swiftly to the elf's throat.  "Go on, then; let's hear some more of that pretty gibberish before I stick this in your neck."

 The other one snorted.  "Pray to your heathen gods, and let's see if they answer."

 Feyndir didn't respond.  He closed his eyes and summoned a memory of Hugo to his mind instead, his child snug in Ryneth's arms and wrapped in a blanket made from the bear hide that had been Atharil's gift.  Something to see as he died, in the place of the sneering Orlesians before his face.

 But the image, intended as a final comfort, enraged him.  He was angry that he wouldn't see his child grow up, furious that these men would leave Ryneth a human widow amongst the Dalish.  If she even survived the night.

 "You won't...."  He could feel his own blade nicking his throat as he struggled to speak.  The pain brought with it an unexpected rush of heat to his extremities, and his hands balled into fists of their own accord.

 "We won't what, knife-ear?  Leave any of your clan alive?"  The chevalier leaned in, his breath reeking of soured wine.  "After tonight, you may be sure of that.  The Greatwood is clearly long overdue a purge."

 "No!"  The knight's words fell like sparks upon dry grass, and Feyndir felt himself finally alight.  He opened his hands, and fire burst from his palms with enough force to propel the chevalier backwards across the room.  Balls of flame broke upon the velvet curtains behind the human, igniting the dusty fabric in a puff.

 "Maker... you're a mage?!"  The smaller knight looked as surprised as Feyndir felt, but the effect didn't last.  He raised his sword, ready to finish what his friend had started, and then they both heard it.  A sound somewhere between a cry and a scream, unnatural and piercing and very, very close.  The chevalier froze in shock, and Feyndir dove behind the desk again just as the creature that made it lurched into the room.

 It glided over the floor, weaving as if drunk, dragging books from the shelves with the long, sharp spines that protruded from its back.  It reached out clawed hands and pushed aside chairs, its eyeless face turning from side to side as though it searched for something.  It spotted the chevalier, and screamed again.

 The fight was brief.  The Orlesian charged in, sword flashing, and the monstrosity crushed his skull inside his feathered helm with one hand.  It screeched again before chasing down his companion, who was still half stunned from Feyndir's unexpected spell.  The man tried to crawl away, but was skewered through the back by one of the creatures many appendages.  He died staring wide-eyed at the Dalish, still safely out of view behind the desk.

 The creature turned then, raising its head slightly like a dog catching a scent.

 " _Feynnn _...."  It covered its face with its hands, made a noise that sounded vaguely like a sob, and swept out of the room.__

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 Feyndir scrambled after it, pausing only long enough to retrieve his bow and grab a few arrows.  His hands were shaking so badly he could barely fill his quiver, and smoke from the blazing curtains was rapidly filling the room, making it difficult to breath or see.  He still couldn't quite believe he'd cast the spell that started the fire, and had no idea whether he'd be capable of repeating the feat.  There wasn't even time to think about it.  Whatever the thing was that had killed the chevaliers, he had to stop it before it hurt someone he loved.


	58. Chapter 58

 Ryneth was growing tired.  Her calves burned with the effort of keeping her balance as she followed Atharil back and forth across the beams, pausing now and then to fire a hurried arrow at the chevaliers below.

 "You can't keep this up all night."  The sweat on Ser Edgard's brow was visible even from a distance, and he kept one hand pressed tight against his wound.  "Which one of you will stumble first, I wonder?"

 "Are you still conscious?"  Atharil motioned, and Ryneth handed him the bow.  He pried one of the chevaliers' arrows from one of the rafters and drew.  "I'm surprised you haven't bled out yet."

 Ser Edgard grinned, and Ryneth saw that his teeth were tinged with blood.  "'Tis a scratch."

 "Ma harel."  The hunter's arrow embedded itself in Ser Louis's hastily-raised shield.  "You're dying."

 The chevalier scowled.  "I'll outlive you, knife-ear."

 Ryneth opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a piercing shriek from just outside the room.  It was a cry full of pain, though unlike any sound she'd heard man or beast make before.

 "What in Andraste's name was that?"  The chevalier beside Ser Edgard took a step backward, dropping his bow in favor of a sword.

 Ser Louis paled.  "It can't be...."

 The creature slid into the room, its spines outstretched and reaching.  An arrow protruded from its shoulder, and it yanked it free and hurled it across the floor with another scream.

 "It's a fear demon!" Ser Edgard cried, raising his blade unsteadily.  "What's it doing here?"

 Feyndir raced through the open door after the creature, skidding to a halt as he spotted the chevaliers.  He raised his bow, his aim swinging uncertainly between the knights and the monstrosity.

 "Dalish and demons at every turn,"  Ser Louis shook his head.  "I should never have let you drag me to this Maker-forsaken forest, Edgard."

 High above them, Ryneth clutched at Atharil's arm.  "Don't shoot it!"

 The hunter turned slightly, his bow already drawn.  "Are you mad?  Feyndir is down there!"

 "It's just... we don't know where it came from, like the chevalier said."

 He blinked.  "It's a _demon _, lethallan.  It came from the Fade, clearly."__

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 She looked down at the freakish creature, swatting at the knights who were already moving to surround it.  "But how did it get here?  There isn't a rift for miles."

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 "Does it matter?  We can worry about that when it's dead."  He took aim and loosed an arrow that struck the demon in the back.  It screeched and wheeled about, searching for whoever had wounded it.

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 Ryneth wrung her hands.  She didn't want to give voice to her suspicions, afraid that speaking them aloud would somehow make them real.  But she couldn't just stand there, either.  She couldn't keep silent, couldn't watch as Atharil and Feyndir -

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 "It's Freylen, Atharil!"  She could feel her legs weaken as she said it, her stomach twisting itself into a knot.  "At least, I think it could be."

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 The hunter lowered his bow slowly.  "Why?  Why would you think that?"  His voice had gone strangely flat.  Below, one of the chevaliers screamed as the demon smacked him against a pillar.

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 "Elodie's labor wasn't going well.  There was too much blood, and Freylen... I thought she could help.  She saved Hugo, and I thought-"

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 Atharil spun around, grabbing the front of her tunic in his fist.  Ryneth lost her balance at the sudden movement, one foot slipping off the beam beneath her, and the elf held her dangling above the stone floor far below.

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 "Blood magic?"  His voice was a growl, his mouth twisted in fury.  "You told Freylen to use blood magic?"

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 She clutched onto his arms, barely able to speak.  "Please, lethallin...."

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 "How did she even -"  His face crumpled suddenly.  "Why?"

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 "To save Elodie.  To save the baby."

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 Atharil yanked her back onto the rafter and she sank to her knees, shaking.  He looked back at the creature raging beneath their feet.

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 "Feyndir told me Hugo was born dead.  I thought he was mistaken, that Freylen had brought the child around...."

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 Ryneth shook her head slowly.  "She made me promise not to tell anyone.  I'm so sorry, Atharil."

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 "Don't."  His tone was cold again, his eyebrows furrowed.  "I have to stop her."

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 "But she's-"

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 "She's not Freylen."  He drew the bow again.

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 Ser Edgard was the first to fall.  Though wounded, the knight charged in bravely nonetheless, his sword flashing, and the fear demon threw him half the length of the room.  His back hit the corner of the heavy stone mantle with an audible crack and he fell to the floor, moaning but immobile.

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 The other two chevaliers met similar fates, though they held out for longer and fought even more fiercely.  The one whose name Atharil had never caught ended with his throat ripped out by the creature's long claws, his blood spattering across the white marble floor as he fell.  Ser Louis joined him shortly after, his delicately-flowered mask pierced through one eyehole by a spine that exited out the back of his head. 

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 Apart from the Dalish in the rafters, that left only Feyndir.  The scout had been busily emptying his quiver at the demon from a distance, but now it spun on him.  Closing the space between them in seconds, the entity raised a thin, banded arm over its head.

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 "Feyndir!"  Atharil hadn't even noticed Ryneth leaving his side, but now she was lowering herself down onto the chandelier.

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 "Lethallan, wait!"  He followed her as the demon knocked the bow from Feyndir's hands.  The weapon clattered across the floor and the scout dove after it.  As he reached for it, the creature brought a spine down on his leg, slicing his calf open, and the elf rolled onto his back and cast a fireball that sent the monstrosity reeling.  It screamed again, an ear-splitting cry that was equal parts fury and surprise, and swept out of the room.

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 "Feyndir?"  Ryneth dropped onto the table, her mouth open in shock.

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 The scout sat up and inspected his hands.  "So that's a thing I do now, apparently.  I thought the first time might have been a fluke."

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 Atharil made his way down out of the rafters and walked over to where Ser Edgard still lay beside the blazing hearth.  He nudged the man with one bare toe, and the knight groaned.

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 "Still alive," the Dalish muttered, shaking his head.  He took out his dagger.

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 "The...the baby..."  The knight tried to get up, but Atharil planted a foot in the center of his chestplate.

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 "No harm will come to the child.  I swear it."

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 "Even...even if it's human?"

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__Atharil grunted.  "Even if it's as ugly as you."_ _

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 Ser Edgard nodded slightly.  "Then finish it, elf."  He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

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 "For Elodie."  Atharil slit the nobleman's throat, pausing to wipe his blade on the man's silk sleeve before sheathing it.


	59. Chapter 59

 "We need to get everyone out of the house."  Still seated on the floor, Feyndir pressed a hand to the long gash on his leg, an orangish glow emanating from between his fingers as he healed the wound.  "The chevaliers are all dead, but I may have accidently set fire to the library."

 Atharil nodded.  "Can you and Ryneth manage it?  I'm going after the demon."

 The scout shook his head.  "It's too powerful; let it go.  Perhaps it will wander off and -"

 Atharil lacked the patience to search for gentle words.  "It's Freylen, lethallin."

 Feyndir said nothing for a long moment, though his face paled.  The magic faded from his palms as he lost focus, and when he finally spoke his voice was little more than a whisper.

 "My sister is a talented mage.  That cannot be."

 "I haven't time to explain.  Ryneth can tell you how it happened."  The hunter heard the edge in his voice and immediately regretted it.  "Ir abelas."  He strode out of the room before either of them could respond, but he hadn't gotten halfway down the long hall outside before he heard Feyndir's anguished cry behind him. 

 "Fenedhis lasa!  Fuck!"  Atharil grabbed a vase from a side table and flung it against a mirror, shattering both objects.  "Damn you, Freylen.  Damn you for this...."  He leaned against the table for a moment, shaking with rage and grief, his vision blurred by unshed tears.  Then he stood up and wiped his face, his long fingers pulling at the corners of his eyes.  He took a deep breath.

 "I'm coming for you, vhenan.  Don't worry; I'm coming."

  
 Atharil still had Ryneth's ironbark bow.  He retrieved his own quiver in a daze, fumbling to replace the arrows and strap it to his back, everything seeming to happen in slow motion and through a haze.  Dimly, he was aware of the scent of smoke hanging in the air, growing stronger as he passed close by the library, then fading again slightly as he approached the columned foyer.  The mansion's wide front doors stood battered and ajar, and the elf stepped through them into the moonlit gardens, breathing deeply of the cool night air. 

 Freylen had come this way.  She'd beaten her way out of the building, enough of her self remaining to recognize an exit, but not how to use it properly.  The front gate was similarly broken, the metal bars bent and bizarrely twisted.  She was strong now.

 Atharil followed the demon's trail away from the house and into the forest, his mind clearing somewhat as he focused on tracking the creature.  Darkness complicated matters, but not much.  The demon hadn't been careful in its movements, and the signs of its passage were everywhere.  Broken branches, trampled wildflowers; even displaced stones gave away the direction it had taken.  It was headed straight for Clan Lutharra's camp.

 Did she know where she was going?  Did Freylen remember the way home, or was the demon just searching for more victims?  Their camp was miles away, of course, but Atharil had no idea how fast or far a fear demon could travel.  He only knew he couldn't allow her to get anywhere near the People in her present state.  She would never want to put them in danger.

 The hunter caught the lower branch of a young elm and pulled himself up into its boughs.  From above, he could observe Freylen's twisting path through the forest even more easily.  He could move more quickly, too, stepping from tree to tree rather than fighting his way up rocky slopes and through the underbrush.  He would catch up with her, eventually.

 Unbidden, memories of another such night rose to the front of his mind.  Another chase through another forest, moonlit and flower strewn.  He remembered his shock when he'd discovered it was Freylen he'd been pursuing then, and the way she'd smirked up at him from behind her fawn half-mask.  She'd hunted him that night, though he didn't realize until later.

 Atharil dug the heel of one hand into his eye.  Maybe it wasn't too late; maybe she could still fight off the demon and return to him.  Maybe he would discover his beloved standing at the edge of a mossy clearing, smirking.  Maybe.

  
 By the time he finally spotted her, Atharil had nearly convinced himself Freylen would be herself again.  His heart sank at the reality.  She was crashing mindlessly through the shadowed wood, skeletal arms thrashing at anything in her path.  The thing that possessed her resembled a cave spider from behind, long legs curling forward around its chest.  A demon of fear, the chevaliers had called it. 

 Atharil snorted.  Freylen was one of the bravest people he knew; it was ridiculous to think she could be undone by fright.  In fact, in all the time he'd known her the only thing that had scared her at all was the thought of losing him.

 The thought washed through his veins like ice water.  He put a hand to the nearest tree trunk to steady himself, suddenly recalling how upset Freylen had been when he and Feyndir had left to spy on the chevaliers.  How worried she'd been for their safety.  How frightened. 

 "Freylen!"  His shout echoed off a nearby stone outcrop, and the demon paused.  It turned around slowly, searching for the source of the sound, sniffing at the air through slits on its eyeless face.

 Atharil moved in closer, reaching behind him for an arrow.  "Freylen, vhenan!  Can you hear me?"

 The demon screamed in response, changing direction to head for the tree in which the elf stood.  At least it wasn't moving toward the encampment any more.

 He nocked his arrow, his hands trembling.  "If you're there, Freylen, you need to let me know.  Somehow.  Or...."

 The demon put a hand to the tree's smooth bark, and Atharil felt a vibration move through the branch beneath his feet.  A moment later, the leaves around him began to wilt, poisoned by the creature's touch.  They blackened as he watched, dumbfounded, and rained down over his head as if caught in an autumn wind.

 The hunter drew his bow.

 The demon hissed.  It bolted away suddenly, gliding over the ground with surprising speed, no longer tearing at the undergrowth but simply barrelling through it as if it weren't even there.  Atharil stared in shock for a moment, then raced after it.

  
 The damned thing never seemed to grow weary.  Atharil could feel his every breath burning in his throat, his lungs aching as he sprinted through the Graves in pursuit of the creature.  Twigs slapped his face and branches tore at his clothes as he ran, but he dared not slow his pace for fear of losing sight of it.  
   
 Eventually, the demon led him up a steep hillside where the trees thinned, and Atharil struggled to leap the growing distance between them.  At last he missed and fell to the rocky slope below, rolling as he landed in an effort to minimize the impact.  Still, he felt the jagged stones bruising his ribs and tearing at his knees and shoulders.  He fought to regain his feet, and when he stood, half-dazed and stumbling, the demon had stopped.  With a chill, Atharil realized the creature was waiting for him.

 "Why are you-"  He tasted blood as he spoke, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.  "Please, I don't... I don't want to do this." 

 The demon screeched a response and disappeared over the rise.  Atharil grimaced and jogged unsteadily after it, one hand clutched to his side.

  
 After that, the hunter lost track of distance and direction and time.  The whole world seemed reduced to the pain in his joints, the fire in his lungs, and the necessity to keep moving forward.  The monster crossed streams and he slogged through the water after it, his damp clothing clinging heavily to his skin.  It ascended steep ridges and he scrambled up after, his fingernails digging into the soft earth, his hands clutching at roots as he climbed.

 It was as he crested one such hill that Atharil realized the demon had finally left him.  He scanned the forest in all directions, trying to determine which way it had gone, but could find no trace of it.  Exhausted, he collapsed to his knees, his breath rasping.  He didn't know whether he felt guilty or relieved that Freylen had escaped him, after all.

 A hare raised its head then, appearing  beside a thick tuft of grass as if from nowhere.  It flicked an ear, staring at Atharil through dark, glassy eyes.  The hunter's ragged breath caught in his throat.

 "No," he told it, the word a whisper.  "No more.  I can't -"

 The hare sniffed the air, wiped one paw against its nose, and darted straight into a thicket.  Atharil groaned as he rose to follow it. 

 He was weaving slightly as he pushed his way through the bushes, indifferent to the thorns scratching at his arms.  Light seemed to dance before his eyes in the distance, moving amongst the trees on the far side of a small, flowered clearing.  It was almost like the light of torches, flickering in the darkness.  It was almost like....

 It wasn't almost like anything.  Atharil blinked hard, but the lights didn't waver or fade.  The torches were real, and they belonged to his clansmen.  Clan Lutharra was answering force with force, its warriors heading toward the mansion to settle things with the chevaliers.  And before them, waiting in the middle of the moonlit clearing, stood the demon.

 Atharil felt a surge of panic that brought with it renewed energy.  Shouting a warning to his people, he strung an arrow to his bow and fired it without reflection, striking the creature in its back.  Snarling, it turned to face him just as he let another shot fly, this one catching it in the arm.  It screamed and yanked the arrow free. 

 He could make out the faces of individual elves through the trees now, concerned and hurrying forward despite his warning or because of it.  He couldn't let Freylen hurt them.  She was their First; they looked to her for guidance and safety, trusted her.  He wouldn't let her break that trust now, nor would he allow anyone else to lay a hand on her.  If she couldn't be saved, then he would deal with her himself. 

 Atharil shouldered the bow and yanked his dagger from its sheath, crossing the distance between himself and the demon in a few short seconds.  It watched as he ran toward it, raising an arm to strike at him, but he leapt out of its path at the last second.  Then he leapt again, landing in the middle of the demon's back, one arm around its neck and his feet planted against its bony spine.  He slashed downward, his blade tearing along the creature's shoulderblade, and it shook him off with another screech.  This time, though, the demon sounded pained.  It also sounded familiar in a way that Atharil hadn't expected.

 "Vhenan...."  He was still trying to get up when the demon caught him across the shoulder with one long, claw-like hand.  Its nails cut through his armor as if it were paper, shredding the woven leather and leaving deep scratches in the flesh beneath.  Gasping, he rolled away before it could strike again.

 The others were at the forest's edge now.  Atharil waved a hand at them, his grip tightening on his dagger.  "Stay back!"  He clambered to his feet and turned to the demon, searching its nightmarish face desperately for any sign of the elven mage within, but found nothing.

 "I love you, Freylen."  The demon made no indication that it even heard him, let alone understood the words.  It raised its arms and came at him again, and Atharil threw the dagger with all his strength.

 The blade stuck deep in the monster's chest.  It recoiled sharply, its hands clawing at the air, spasming as the borrowed life drained from its hijacked body.

 "You will suffer no more."  He took his bow and nocked a last arrow, pulling the bowstring taught against his cheek, closing his eyes as he released.

 The demon was knocked backward by the force of his shot.  It collapsed onto the ground, a faint green light emanating from it like smoke from a dying flame.  Atharil dropped his bow and ran over, sinking to his knees beside it.

 " _Mer...cy _."  The whisper was barely a word at all, but Atharil heard it clearly.__

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 "Go to sleep, my love."  He placed a hand on the creature's torn chest, its appearance already shifting as the fading spirit surrendered its grip on Freylen's body.  "Go to sleep, my bride, and wait for me beyond the Veil."

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 By the time Clan Lutharra's fighters drew near, the being on the ground had become a young elven woman once more.  Atharil closed Freylen's starring eyes with two fingers, tears streaming silently down his cheeks.  He barely felt Tirsas's hand upon his shoulder.

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 "Well done, da'len."  The Keeper's voice was low, hollow.  "You truly are Andruil's gift to the People."

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 "If this is how the Huntress rewards devotion, then she is unworthy of it."  He stood up slowly, wincing at a dozen different pains.

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 Tirsas frowned.  "Your grief may excuse your tongue, Atharil."  He looked down at his First sadly.  "What happened to cause this?  Freylen was always a competent mage."

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 "Blood magic."  Even the words tasted bitter.  "It's my fault; she was trying to save Elodie and the baby."

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 "And did she?  Did she succeed?"

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 Atharil looked at the Keeper blankly.  "I don't know.  She - the demon attacked, and I gave chase."

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 Tirsas nodded.  "Come with us, then, and we'll find out together."

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 Atharil shook his head, wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve.  He cleared his throat.  "The chevaliers are all dead.  I want to stay with Freylen."

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 Tirsas put an arm gently about the hunter's shoulders, mindful of his injuries.  "She will be returned to camp, da'len," he said quietly, nodding to one of the other hunters.  "Right now, you must find out if this child lives, and whether it is yours."

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 "No.  I want to be with Freylen."  He could hear his voice cracking, but didn't care.  "She was afraid to lose me; that's why this happened.  I did this."  He covered his face with his hands.

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 "You said she was trying to save a mother and child."

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 "Yes, but -"

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 Tirsas was walking now, guiding him away from the First's broken body as others prepared to move it.  "This isn't your doing, Atharil.  Freylen made a mistake, and a demon took advantage of that.  You have behaved heroically in stopping her."

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 "Please don't say that."

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 "It's how the People will see it, da'len.  They will tell stories of this night - how a brave hunter, blessed by Andruil, single-handedly saved them from a terrible demon."

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 "But I love... I loved her."  Dimly, he was aware of a halla being led over.  Tirsas helped him onto the animal's back, the motion reigniting the burning in his ribs.  "It had to be me.  I had to be the one to end it."

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 "I know.  But that will only make them admire you more."

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 Atharil stared down at the Keeper, horrified.  "Why are you telling me this?"

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 "Because I want you to be prepared.  Our people will mourn their First, but they will also want to celebrate you.  I hope you will try to accept their gratitude with civility, even if it's the last thing you want."  He sighed, swinging easily up into the saddle of his white hart.  "I suppose Arinna must become First now.  Creators help us; she is only a child, and a former city elf, as well.  She's not been with us even a year."

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 Atharil patted his mount's neck absently.  "The girl can remain as Second, hahren.  Let Feyndir take his sister's place as your apprentice."

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 "Feyndir?"  Tirsas looked at him doubtfully.  "He hasn't the -"

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 "Wait and see, Keeper."  Atharil whispered a word to his halla, and it started forward. "Much has changed this night."


	60. Chapter 60

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Round two. I posted this chapter previously, but was dissatisfied with it and removed it. Now it's back, and (hopefully) better than ever.

 Smoke drifted lazily through the forest toward the approaching Dalish, making them cough and raise their neckerchiefs overs their noses.  The mansion was engulfed in flames, bright orange flames licking at the greying sky of early dawn.  Outside the garden wall, a small knot of shadowed figures stood watching the destruction, their backs to the woods.  Atharil slid from his halla's back with a grunt of pain and hobbled toward them.

 "Atharil!"  Ryneth spotted him first and separated herself from the group.  Feyndir was close behind her, a desperate question written on his tired, soot-stained face.

 "Ir abelas."  Atharil took one of the scout's hands and pressed it to his forehead.  "Ir abelas, Feyndir.  Forgive me.  I had no choice."

 "She's truly gone, then?"  Feyndir let out a choked sob.  "My little sister, my da'len...?"

 The hunter blinked back fresh tears.  "Freylen didn't know me, lethallin.  The demon had her in its grip, and she was about to attack the People... I couldn't let that happen."

 Feyndir looked dazed, but he pulled Atharil into an embrace that crushed the breath from his lungs.  "You saved her, then.  That is how I will think of it."  He drew a ragged breath.  "You set her free."

  
 The wail of an infant interrupted the elves' grief then, the cry high and thin over the crackling of the fire.  Feyndir broke away and held his friend at arm's length.

 "Elodie has been awaiting your return.  You should go to her."

 Atharil looked in the direction of the sound.  "She lives, then?  And the child...Freylen saved them both?"

 "Of course she did."  The scout drew a sleeve across his eyes.  "Just as she saved Hugo, I'm now told."

 Ryneth shot him a worried look before laying a hesitant hand on Atharil's arm.  "Freylen's sacrifice wasn't in vain, lethallin.  Elodie and her baby both owe her their lives."

 He nodded, feeling numb with weariness.  "And is it...."  The words refused to form, somehow.  "Is the baby...?"

 Ryneth patted his arm sympathetically.  "This is your path to walk, Atharil."

 "Of course."  The exhausted hunter straightened his back, wincing slightly.  He was beginning to suspect some of his injuries were more serious than he'd thought, but it hardly mattered.  If the child wasn't his, if Freylen had given up her life for some chevalier's bastard....  It didn't bear thinking about.

  
 Leaving Feyndir and Ryneth and following the child's wails, Atharil passed through the few servants the chevaliers had left behind.  They were all elven, and Tirsas was already hard at work extolling to them the virtues of a Dalish life.  They looked terrified, Atharil thought dully.  Terrified to be free, and frightened of their own kind.  It was madness.

 "No one's going to harm you," he whispered to Marienne as he walked behind her.

 The cook spun about, startled.  "His Lordship's summer house is burning and his son is dead.  I am already harmed!"

 It took all the strength he had left not to snap at her.  "You should heed the Keeper's words and join us," he told her, instead.  "It won't be safe for you to return to Val Royeaux now."

 She wrung her hands.  "And what am I meant to do in a Dalish camp?  I'm no fighter."

 "No, but you are a cook, Marienne."  Her protestations were making his head ache.  "Everyone needs to eat; only the ingredients change.  I'm sure you'll find a place."

 He moved on before she could respond, finally spotting Elodie.  The new mother was seated on a blanket at a distance from the rest of the group, her back against the trunk of a young maple tree.  In her arms, bundled against the chill night air, a baby fussed.  As he watched, it thrust a small, defiant fist upward, and his heart began to hammer in his battered chest.

 Elodie looked up at his approach, dark circles beneath her lovely green eyes.

 "Atharil.  How is Freylen?"

 He shook his head.  "I couldn't save her.  I had to... she's gone." 

 "Oh, Atharil.  I'm so sorry."  She reached for his hand, and he allowed her to pull him down until he knelt across from her on the blanket.  "She saved us both, you know.  If it weren't for her-"

 "I know."  He could feel a painful lump growing in his throat, and fought to keep his voice steady.  "But you're all right?  And the child?"

 She smiled softly.  "Would you like to hold her?"

 Her easy offer surprised him.  "What?  Are you sure?"

 "Well, if you'd rather not...."

 "No!  Please."  He held out his arms, ignoring the white-hot pain that shot through his shoulder where the demon's claws had raked him.  "It's...she's a girl?"

 Elodie nodded.  "Your so-called Dalish intuition was right, it seems."

 Atharil swallowed hard, gazing down at the infant's tiny, pink face.  Bundled in blankets as she was, he couldn't see the baby's ears, couldn't know for certain.  But she was so small - small and light.  He dared to hope.

 And then the infant opened her violet eyes, and Atharil gasped.

 Elodie leaned in.  "They're an unusual color, aren't they?  I've never seen anything -"  
   
 "They're my father's eyes."  His vision blurred as fresh tears sprang up.  It felt as if he'd wept a thousand that night already.  "She's my daughter, isn't she?"

 "There's a pair of pointed ears somewhere in all those blankets, yes."  Elodie cocked her head to one side.  "But I thought you never met your father."

 "I didn't."  He pushed the wrappings gently back from the tiny elf's head.  Wisps of white-blonde hair escaped, and he smoothed them with one callused thumb.  "But my mother... he wore the mask of a wolf, but she never forgot his eyes.  She swore by every Creator in our pantheon they were purple, but I never quite believed it.  Until now."

 "They're beautiful."  She folded her hands in her lap, studying them.  "It's a relief she's yours, Atharil.  When I heard... when I heard Edgard's voice in the hallway, I was terrified.  But you protected me - protected us.  Thank you."  
   
 Atharil kissed the baby's forehead lightly.  "I slit his throat with my dagger, and I whispered your name to him as he died."

 Elodie paled.  "Oh.  That's... thank you."  She shook her head.  "I'll never forget what you and your clansmen did here tonight.  Most of all Freylen.  I know she was never very fond of me, and I understand why, but she didn't hesitate to risk herself when it mattered.  She was so brave, Atharil; I understand now why you loved her so much."

 Atharil traced a line along the length of one of his daughter's long ears.  They slanted back slightly like his own, lying flat and pink along the side of her head.  He couldn't speak of Freylen and hope to maintain his composure, but he wasn't ready to hand his da'len back to her mother just yet.

 "What will you do now?" he asked instead, his voice gruff.

 Elodie glanced over at the flaming building.  "Well, I'm definitely not going back to Val Royeaux.  I think I've known that for some time, though."

 "You could still -"

 "No, I couldn't.  If anything, I'm more convinced than ever that I'm not cut out to be Dalish."  She took a deep breath.  "I want to take Hendry up on his offer.  I know you don't approve, but -"

 Atharil nodded, surprising himself.  "All right.  I'll visit when when Ryneth brings Hugo.  Our daughter can still know me, if you'll allow it."

 Elodie smiled faintly.  "You'd really let her go?  And all this time, I half-expected you'd try to run off with her when the time came."

 Atharil felt a blush creeping up his neck.  "The thought may have crossed my mind, if I'm being completely honest.  But now... I can't be the cause of any more pain, Elodie.  My selfishness has caused enough suffering."

 Elodie's eyes sparkled, and the hunter realized he wasn't the only one who was close to tears.  "I'm not taking her with me, Atharil."  She tilted her chin, a sudden determination in the set of her jaw.  "I've decided I want her to be with her father.  Among the People."

 The hunter could hardly believe what he was hearing.  "Are you certain?"

 "Please don't think I'm horrible.  It's just...I need to start over, and I know -"

 He reached over and laid a hand on hers.  "Thank you."

 Elodie nodded, her bottom lip wavering slightly.  "I saw the best of the Dalish tonight, Atharil - how you look out for one another no matter the odds, no matter the cost.  And I know every one of you would defend our daughter with your life."  She looked away.  "From every possible danger."  
   
 "We'll keep her safe, Elodie.  I swear it to... I swear it.  What happened to you will never happen to her."

 The city elf smiled, wiping away a stray tear.  "Well, that's settled, then."  She cleared her throat.  "Now she just needs a name." 

 Atharil looked down at his daughter once again, taking in the straight line of her tiny nose, the wide set of her unusual eyes.  Of course she was elven; how had he not been certain at once?

 "Would it be wrong... would it -"  He blinked hard.  "Could we call her Freylen?"


	61. Chapter 61

 Clan Lutharra buried their First near the outer wall of Elgar'nan's Bastion, beside her clansman Caran.  In the way of their people, each of the elves held an oak staff in one shrouded hand, and a cedar branch in the other.  Feyndir had also recovered Caran's ears from Edgard's body, and these were placed in a small silk pouch and tied to the dead hunter's wrist.  His long hair, which he'd always worn braided, had been loosed and arranged around his face to conceal the disfigurement.

 "May the ravens of Fear and Deceit scatter before you, vhenan," Atharil whispered, crouching beside Freylen's open grave.  He sprinkled a handful of dirt slowly across her remains before struggling to his feet, shooing away the hand that Feyndir offered.  The hunter had thus far refused any healing magic for his wounds, and the mages were reluctant to force it on him despite his obvious pain. 

 The Dalish burial ceremony, which Tirsas conducted almost entirely in elven, was necessarily brief.  The area of the Graves in which the Bastion was located was frequented by giants, and there were signs of a recent struggle nearby, as well.  As soon as it was over, Atharil walked off into the deep forest alone, a pale ghost disappearing into the gloom of the shaded wood.

 "Leave him, rabbit."  Feyndir laid a tired hand on Ryneth's arm as she made to follow.  "We have still to place Freylen's tree, and Atharil has other duties to fulfil."

  
  When the memorial trees had been planted atop the fresh graves, the remaining elves of Clan Lutharra made their way quietly home together.  A thin column of smoke greeted them from a distance.  Atharil had set Freylen's tent on fire.

 "This is one Dalish custom I still don't understand," Ryneth said as she dropped to her knees beside the hunter, watching as what remained of the tent poles crumbled into the flames.

 Atharil grunted.  "She's gone.  I won't disrespect her memory by looking through her things, or passing them around to others."  He gestured to a staff beside him on the grass.  "I did save that out for your bondmate, though.  Freylen's was left behind in the mansion, but I recall her saying this one belonged to their mother.  Feyndir will need it, now."

 Ryneth grimaced.  "You saw that Tirsas made him wear mage robes today?  He hates them, but I think they suit him."

 Atharil's mouth turned up at one corner, a dim reflection of his usual lopsided grin.  "You'd think he looked well in sackcloth."

 "Well, he would."  She shrugged.  "Atharil, about Baby Freylen...."

 The hunter wrinkled his nose.  "Maybe we could just call her Frey?  'Baby Freylen' just sounds...odd."

 "Okay, Frey, then.  The hahrens have been minding her, along with Hugo, but when she's hungry... they're passing her back to Elodie."

 "And?  The entire clan will be on the move by tomorrow; surely one day more won't -"

 Ryneth sighed, exasperated.  "She's trying not to bond with the child, lethallin.  You can't ask her to nurse a baby she's already given up!"

 Atharil shook his head as if trying to clear it.  "You're right," he conceded.  "I'm sorry, I'm not thinking straight.  I'll ask around, find another mother who can -"

 "Atharil."

 He looked at her, his pale eyes red with sorrow and lined with exhaustion, and Ryneth realized she was going to have to be much more direct.

 "I can do it."

 "You?"  He blinked.  "But Frey is an elf."

 "Wealthy human women sometimes employ elven nursemaids, lethallin.  I'd imagine it can work both ways."  She hesitated, suddenly embarrassed.  "Unless you'd rather I not.  In which case, I understand completely.  I didn't mean to -"

 "I would be honored."  He shook his head, and when he spoke again his voice was choked.  "So many people looking out for my da'len.  She must be blessed by -"  He stopped suddenly, his expression souring.

 "What is it?"

 "Nothing."  He looked back at the fire, now little more than a pile of glowing embers.  "Did you ever truly believe in the Maker, Ryneth?  Before you met Feyndir?"

 She took a deep breath.  "Maybe, when I was a child.  Not so much as I got older."

 The elf nodded, considering.  "What changed?"

 Ryneth wasn't sure where the conversation was headed, but she felt a twinge of worry.  Belief in the Creators was central to a Dalish elf's sense of identity; if Atharil was questioning his faith, she needed to tread lightly.

 "I don't know, lethallin.  But even if the Maker does exist, he's turned away from his creation.  So what use is belief, really?"  She shrugged helplessly.

 "The elven Creators are locked away, or so the stories say.  When we fail, when our prayers go unanswered, we tell ourselves they wanted to help us but couldn't.  Yet when we succeed, we credit them."

 Ryneth laid a hand on his back.  "Religion is always confusing, I think, no matter which one a person follows."

 "Mmm."  He was silent for a moment.  "Ryneth, I think Andruil took Freylen from me."

 "What?"  She felt the blood cool in her veins.  This was not what she'd prepared herself to hear.  "You can't believe that.  That's -"

 "Crazy?"  He smiled sadly.  "She's the goddess of the hunt, lethallan.  I was conceived in her honor, I wear her vallaslin... I am _hers _."  He drew a hand across his face, rubbing at his markings.  "Sometimes I think I see her messengers in the forest.  Last night, there was a hare...."__

____

____

 "Atharil, listen to yourself.  A great many hares live in these woods; everyone sees them.  It means nothing."

____

____

 "Maybe you're right.  But it almost felt like... like something _wanted _me to hunt Freylen.  Like someone was enjoying the chase, revelling in the sacrifice...."  He put his head in his hands, his fingers splayed through his flaxen hair.  Ryneth could see the shorter strands where he'd cut it to free himself from Edgard's grasp.__

_____ _

_____ _

 She rubbed his back, uncertain what to say, her palms running over the knobs of his spine as he hunched over.  At last, he sighed and rose unsteadily to his feet.

_____ _

_____ _

 "I'm going to get some water for this," he said, motioning toward the smouldering remains of Freylen's home.  "It's nearly burned itself out now, anyway."  He took a few steps and turned back to her.  "Either the Creators don't exist, Ryneth, or the Dread Wolf truly has locked them away from us.  Or... or they're not who we think they are.  At all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've borrowed the custom of burning a deceased person's worldly possessions from the Irish Traveller community, who follow a similar practice.


	62. Chapter 62

 "This can't be the right spot; we're in the middle of nowhere."  Hendry crossed his arms, glancing about doubtfully.  Prairie grasses waved against his legs, moved by a cool breeze that shook the leaves of the nearby trees.  Before them, the eastern edge of the Greatwood loomed green and ominous, its depths shadowed even at midday.

 Sean pointed into the gloom.  "This is it, all right.  This is where the messenger told us to wait.  Look there."

 Hendry squinted.  "And what am I meant to be seeing, exactly?"

 "Look at the trees, my ever-observant son."  He gave an exasperated sigh.  "Some of the smaller ones have been removed recently.  Cut off at the ground and dragged away.  This is where they plan to pass through."

 "I still don't see anything.  It's all just...oh fuck.  Andraste's smoking skirts!"  He took a step backwards, grabbing onto Molly's reins with one hand. 

 "Hendry, language!"  Sean laced his hands in front of himself as the first of Clan Lutharra's aravels rolled slowly toward them, pulled by a half-dozen snorting halla and surrounded by armed and armored Dalish on foot.  When it had cleared the trees an order was shouted, and elves on the upper deck scrambled to unfurl the landship's enormous crimson mainsail.  It snapped open as it caught the breeze.

 "We should...maybe we shouldn't be quite this close," Hendry breathed as the next aravel appeared, easily twice the size of the first and with three times the escort.  A small Dalish girl stood on its deck, her brow furrowed in concentration as she cast spells that seemed to lighten the ship's load, allowing it to roll more easily across the uneven ground.  An elf in patterned robes stood beside her, one hand resting reassuringly upon her shoulder.

 "Wave to your sister's Keeper, boy," Sean instructed, raising a hand in greeting.

 A slight frown flickered across Tirsas's face as he caught sight of the two humans, but he nodded an acknowledgement.  Several hunters, apparently awaiting this sign of tacit approval, lowered their weapons in response.

 "I think I just shit my smalls."  Hendry had gone white in the face.

 "Smile, lad," Sean told him through his own frozen grin.  "And don't make any sudden movements.  Remember, they're more frightened of you than you are of them."

 Hendry gave an uneasy laugh.  "I doubt a hundred Dalish warriors are scared of two men and an elderly mare, but sure."

 

 A honk, noisy and undignified, broke the quiet just then.  The humans startled, turning to see an enormous white hart trotting up behind them.  From its back Atharil glowered down, one hand laid alongside the great beast's neck.  The other curled protectively around a bundle of furs that was strapped to his bare chest.

 "Oh, good.  The welcoming party has arrived."  Hendry crossed his arms, then unfolded them again as he caught sight of a pair of slender arms wrapped around the hunter's midsection.  "Elodie?"  He took an uncertain step forward.

 Atharil drew the hart up alongside them, halting it with a pat and a mumbled elven command.

 "Hendry!"  Elodie broke into a wide smile, releasing her grasp on the hunter's waist and stretching her arms out to him.  Hendry reached up, trying to help her off the animal's back with some measure of grace, but the ground was a long way down.  She ended up falling into him, both of them laughing nervously as they separated themselves.  Atharil and Sean exchanged a look.

 "She's decided to remain with you, if your offer still stands," the hunter said, addressing the younger man.  "Treat her well."  His tone left no doubt that the words were a warning.

 Hendry reddened.  "Of course I will - not that it's any of your business."

 Atharil arched an eyebrow, adjusting the wrappings slightly so that the top of Frey's head was visible.  "This is our daughter, shemlen.  If any harm befalls her mother, I'll return and -"

 Sean clapped his hands together, neatly interrupting the elf's threat.  "We're so glad you're here, Elodie.  Hendry speaks fondly of you."

 "He does?"  The city elf blushed.

 Sean nodded.  "You're very welcome here, my dear.  Though I gather you've decided not to keep the little one with you?"  He glanced at Atharil doubtfully.

 Elodie smiled up at the hunter.  "She's going to stay with her father.  I trust Atharil and his people with her life."

 "Well, you know best, I'm sure."  Sean's eyes travelled over the bright purple bruises on Atharil's arms and ribcage, finally settling on the deep gashes across his shoulder.  "Every time I see you, you seem to be adding to your collection of scars.  Shall I assume these fresh injuries have something to do with the clan's sudden decision to break camp?"

 Atharil's expression darkened, his mouth thinning into a tight line.  "There was a demon."

 The older man lifted a brow in surprise.  "And you fought it, killed it?  That's an impressive feat."

 "So I'm told."  He turned, leaning low over the hart's side.  "I should be going now, Elodie."

 She nodded, reaching up to take his hand.  "Thank you, Atharil.  I'll never forget what you and your people did for me.  Especially Freylen."

 The hunter squeezed her palm.  "I wish you the happiness you deserve.  Whatever shape that takes for you."  He glanced at Hendry, who scowled back at him.

 Elodie planted a soft kiss on the baby's forehead.  "I have something for her."  She reached into a pocket and withdrew a familiar musicbox.  Atharil smiled faintly as he accepted it.

 "You've chosen the perfect memento," he said, turning the enchanted box over in his hands.  "Perhaps, if things had been different...."

 She shook her head.  "We had a lovely dance, Atharil.  But that's all it could have been."

 He nodded and released her hand, straightening his back with effort.  "Dareth shiral, Elodie."

 She stepped back.  "Farewell, Atharil."

 

 Ryneth and Feyndir rode up a few moments later, sharing one of the clan's few horses.  Sean clapped a hand over his mouth at the sight of the former scout.

 "Who is this mage before me, and what has he done with my son?"

 Feyndir managed a thin smile.  "I've been made First, hahren."  He dismounted and turned to take Hugo from Ryneth.  "I'm still getting used to the idea - and the wardrobe - myself."

 Hendry scratched at his neck.  "But if you're First, then -"

 "Don't."  Ryneth slipped off the horse's back.  "It's been a difficult few days, Hendry.  Leave it at that."

 Sean's brow furrowed.  "I think I see.  I'm very sorry for your loss, Feyndir."

 "Thank you."  He cleared his throat, glancing over at the line of aravels still threading their way through the woods behind them.  "There's not much time, I'm afraid; we need to keep up with the clan.  Would you like to meet your grandson?"

  
 They stretched the impromptu reunion as long as they dared, Sean fussing over all three of them in turn.  Hendry pestered Feyndir for a demonstration of his newly-heightened magical abilities, but the elf declined, insisting he needed more training to cast safely.  Elodie and Ryneth embraced, Ryneth quietly promising she'd keep a motherly watch over little Freylen.  And then, as the last of the aravels opened its broad sails behind them, it was time to part ways.

 "Where are you headed, my children?"  Sean smiled, though his eyes blurred with tears.

 "The Brecilian Forest."  Feyndir looked apologetic.  "I know it is some distance...."

 Sean nodded.  "I don't need to warn you to be careful, I suppose.  As a Dalish, you're likely  more familiar with that forest's reputation than most."

 "I spent several years there as a child, actually."  Feyndir grinned sheepishly.  "It has its dangers, admittedly, but for elves it's safer than most places in Thedas."

 The older man folded his arms.  "My daughter and grandson are not elves, however."

 "I'll take good care of them, I promise you."

 Sean grunted.  "I know you will.  And I'll see Ryneth and Hugo again within the year, if Hendry informed me correctly.  I suppose I should thank your Keeper for that."

 Ryneth rolled her eyes.  "I don't think Tirsas had your happiness in mind, father."

 "No, probably not.  But I'm thankful to him, all the same."  Sean pulled the pair of them into a hug, Hugo in Ryneth's arms at the center.  "Safe journeys, my wandering Dalish children.  Until we meet again."

 "Until we meet again," Feyndir repeated.  "Dareth shiral, father."

  
 They mounted the horse again, Feyndir turning the animal's head towards the east.  Then he paused.

 "One last thing before we go."  The new First smirked down at Hendry.  "Are you ever going to kiss that poor girl?"

 Hendry turned as red as an aravel's sails.  "I don't...I mean...."  He glanced at Elodie.  "I didn't want to presume anything."

 The city elf returned his gaze evenly, though her freckled cheeks brightened to match his own.  "I wouldn't find it presumptuous, Hendry."

 "You wouldn't?  Oh.  Well, then...."  He grinned and leaned in awkwardly, his lips brushing hers in an innocent peck that soon deepened.  After a few moments, he wrapped his arms around Elodie's waist and pulled her closer.  Sean cleared his throat loudly, but the two seemed to have already forgotten anyone else was present. 

 Ryneth smiled.  "I think your work here is done, Feyndir," she said, patting his thigh.  "Let's catch up with the rest of the clan."

  
 Sean watched Clan Lutharra's aravels thread their way across the grasslands until the bright sails were mere smudges against the afternoon sky.  Then, with a heavy sigh, he turned in the opposite direction and started walking.

 "We'll see them again soon."  Elodie laid a gentle hand on his arm.

 "I know."  He patted her fingers.  "And in the meantime, may the Maker watch over them all."

 Hendry snorted.  "They wouldn't appreciate you saying that, you know."

 "Why do you think I waited until they were out of earshot?"  He smiled mischievously.  "Come on you two; it's been a long day, and we have a long journey yet before us.  Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost The End. Not quite.  
> Still an epilogue to follow.


	63. Epilogue

 Tirsas studied the letter in his hands.  "To the Dalish people, wherever this finds them...."  He looked up at the flat-ear woman seated cross-legged across from him.  "This is meant to be written by one of our own?  There is no traditional greeting, not a word of elven -"

 "I've no reason to lie to you, serah."  She looked annoyed, impatient.  "The Inquisitor has been away from her people for some time, but I promise you she dictated this letter personally.  Perhaps you should finish reading it before you question my intentions?  I've come an awfully long way to find your clan."

 The Keeper grunted and held the parchment out in front of him again, his narrowed eyes moving back and forth quickly across the page.  About halfway through, he inhaled sharply. 

 The Inquisition's representative smiled slightly.  "Every time, every Keeper.  It never gets old."

 "What does it say?"  Feyndir leaned in and Tirsas handed him the missive, his hands trembling.  The First skimmed past the formalities, searching for the important lines.  "While searching for this elu...eluvian...." He looked up in surprise.  "Like the one that killed Tamlen of Clan Sabrae?"

 "Exactly."  She pushed a loose wisp of red hair behind one long ear.  "That's not the interesting part, though.  Keep going."

 A thousand questions flooded Feyndir's mind, but he nodded and read on.  If there was something more thrilling than finding another of the mysterious, ancient mirrors, he couldn't imagine what it might-

 "Oh my...that's not possible."  He felt his stomach lighten, and the world momentarily dimmed.  "Is this a trick?  Some kind of joke?"

 "It is not."  The messenger straightened her leather gloves as she spoke.  "In the Arbor Wilds, the Herald contacted a... a _being _who claims to be one of your Creators.  The entity's help was instrumental in helping the Inquisition defeat Corypheus, and the Inquisitor has ordered that all Dalish clans be informed as soon as possible."  She frowned.  "All the clans that can be located, that is.  We had nearly given up on finding yours; we've been searching for months."__

____

____

 Feyndir barely heard her.  "Mythal's mercy," he breathed, then burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all.

____

____

 Tirsas scowled, though his own face was pale as a halla's fur.  "Get ahold of yourself, da'len.  We already knew Mythal existed, didn't we?  We Dalish have always maintained our faith in the Creators."

____

____

 "Faith?"  Feyndir waved the letter.  "This isn't about faith, Tirsas!  Mythal is _real _, and _alive _, and -"____

_____ _

_____ _

 "Technically, she's not.  Alive, that is."  The messenger motioned at the parchment.  "Keep reading."

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir and Tirsas finished the letter together, pressing their heads close together to read at the same time. 

_____ _

_____ _

 "No.  Mythal would never choose a shemlen host."  Tirsas crossed his arms.

_____ _

_____ _

 The Inquisition's representative nodded.  "You're not the first Dalish to have that reaction, and whatever you choose to believe is up to you, of course.  But you should know that Inquisitor Lavellan believes very strongly that the person she met _is _your goddess."__

_____ _

_____ _

 "I believe it, too."  Feyndir met Tirsas's gaze, noting the mistrust in his eyes.  "Hahren, why not?  Is it so difficult to think Mother Mythal might be capable of seeing beyond the shape of a person's ears, that she might find something worthy in their spirit that calls out to her own?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Tirsas sighed heavily.  "Like you did, you mean?"  He was silent for a time.  "I'll have to call a meeting.  The People must be informed, though I can't imagine how they'll take this news."

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir smiled.  "They'll be ecstatic, Tirsas.  They'll want to celebrate."

_____ _

_____ _

 "You think so?"  The Keeper considered.  "Perhaps they should, then.  Very well; we'll make a feast day out of it."  He looked at the messenger.  "I hope you'll stay for the festivities...err..."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Charter, ser.  And I'm afraid I need to be going now."  She rose to her feet, and the two Dalish followed suit.  "Your sentries didn't allow my travelling companions into camp, and I should return to them before they start worrying."

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir winced slightly.  "I apologize, but we must take precautions -"

_____ _

_____ _

 She held up a hand.  "I understand.  Is there any message you'd like me to convey to Inquisitor Lavellan?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Tirsas appeared startled.  He glanced at Feyndir and cleared his throat carefully before speaking. "Tell her she has our thanks.  And tell her... tell her Clan Lutharra is proud of her."

_____ _

_____ _

 

_____ _

_____ _

 "Turn around."

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth shifted carefully.  The aravel's interior had always been cozy, more a place to sleep and to store their few possessions than an actual home.  But now that there were effectively four of them most of the time, it was positively tight.  Her knee bumped the side of Hugo's cradle, and both he and Frey startled in their sleep.

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir ran a bone comb through her hair, parting it into neat sections.

_____ _

_____ _

 "We'll leave the babies in the care of the hahrens this evening," he promised as he began braiding.  "You deserve the chance to relax and enjoy yourself."

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth smiled, enjoying the feel of his fingers against her head.  "It's been some time since the clan had a reason to celebrate.  I just can't quite believe what we're celebrating.  It's surreal, isn't it?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir chuckled.  "I grew up hearing stories of the Creators, but even so...it's overwhelming.  I guess I'd better not skimp on my offerings from now on."

_____ _

_____ _

 "You're not the only one to have had that thought.  All the clan's shrines are covered in flowers and food and incense - someone even turned Fen'Harel's statue around.  It's facing towards the middle of camp now."

_____ _

_____ _

 "It is not."  Feyndir tied off one braid and began another.  "Tirsas bade me turn it back again."

_____ _

_____ _

 "But the letter said the Dread Wolf was blameless in Mythal's death." 

_____ _

_____ _

 "And should that absolve him for the Great Betrayal?"  Feyndir sighed.  "Please don't  express any strong opinions on this topic tonight, rabbit.  I've already had to break up more than one scuffle today."

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth frowned, but changed the subject.  "Will Atharil attend, do you think?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Feyndir paused.  "I spoke to him earlier, actually, and he promised he'd put in an appearance."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Really?"  She twisted about, and Feyndir grunted in disapproval as her hair slipped from his grasp.  "How did you manage that?  He barely leaves his tent these days."

_____ _

_____ _

 The First shrugged.  "I reminded him of the advice he gave me when Anarra died.  I told him Freylen would not wish to see him like this, that she would want him to seek joy in life again."

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth's eyes filled with sudden tears.  "I miss her."

_____ _

_____ _

 "As do I.  Every day."  He stroked her cheek, sweeping back a stray wisp of hair.  "You are so precious to me, rabbit.  I would give anything, do anything for your happiness."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Feyndir...."  Her face felt suddenly hot.  "I know that already."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Good."  The wistfulness vanished from his eyes as quickly as it had appeared.  "Then turn around and let me finish with your hair.  No more wiggling, or you'll ruin it."

_____ _

_____ _

 

_____ _

_____ _

 "Ryneth!"  Marienne's face was flush with heat as she tended a long spit skewered with a variety of game birds and other small animals.  Arinna stood beside her, grinning.

_____ _

_____ _

 "The hunting continues to be plentiful, I see."  Ryneth came to stand beside them.

_____ _

_____ _

 Arinna nodded.  "Keeper Tirsas says the Brecilian Forest is always happy to see elves.  That's why our hunters have such success here."  She took the Orlesian elf's hand.  "Marienne cooks just like Mama used to."

_____ _

_____ _

 "I may have pocketed some spices on my way out of the mansion," Marienne explained with a wink.  "I'm just happy to have found someone here who can appreciate proper seasoning."  She gave the girl's hand a squeeze.

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth smiled.  The city-born Second and the cook had taken to one another almost instantly, and had since become nearly inseparable.  It was good for both of them, she thought.  Arinna understood the older woman's discomfort at having to adapt to a new way of life, and Marienne provided the mother figure Arinna had lost for a second time with Freylen's death.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Can I get you something?"  Mariene offered.  "I've a lovely bit of fennec here."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Thank you, but no.  Not just yet, anyway." 

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth looked over at the central campfire, stoked even higher than usual for the festivities.  Sparks from the enormous blaze leapt skyward, illuminating the towering trees gathered close on every side.  Below them, the shadowed figures of elves encircled the fire, laughing and drinking a thick dandelion wine.  Near the edge of the group, seated on a freshly-hewn log, a lone figure sat observing the merriment.  Ryneth headed over.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Atharil."  She forced a bright smile, though his appearance both pained and vaguely frightened her.  The firelight accentuated the hollows of his cheeks and deepened the dark circles beneath his eyes.  He was wearing his best clothing, but the embroidered tunic hung off of him.  Even the flowing silk shirt beneath made him look more fragile than elegant.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Lethallan."  He jumped up guiltily.  "I'm sorry I left Frey with you all day.  Again.  I was so tired, and I only meant to lie down for a few minutes -"

_____ _

_____ _

 "It's okay."  She put her arms around him.  "I'm glad you're here now."

_____ _

_____ _

 On the far side of the fire, someone produced a drum and struck up a rhythm.  Ryneth could feel the vibrations like a second heartbeat in her chest, slow and heavy but gradually increasing in pace.  A flute joined in, and then another.  Beside them, a young Dalish woman whooped and raised her fist in the air.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Let the frolicking begin," Atharil said drily, shifting out of her embrace and taking her hand.  "Walk with me."

_____ _

_____ _

 They left the campfire behind, threading their way past tents and aravels to the edge of the encampment.  It was cooler here, a night breeze blowing through the creaking, ancient trees.  Ryneth shivered in her thin dress.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Ir abelas; should we turn back?"  Atharil's brow furrowed in concern.

_____ _

_____ _

 "No.  No, I'm fine."  She laughed suddenly.  "Let's stroll around the perimeter, shall we?  It'll be like old times."

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil offered a wan smile.  "All right, though I think you and I both have enough children for the time being."  He reddened.  "That's...not how I meant that.  It's just, last time you were in labor, so -"

_____ _

_____ _

 "I remember."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Of course."  He cleared his throat.  "Where is Feyndir, anyway?  I expected he'd be with you tonight."

_____ _

_____ _

 "He had some things to discuss with Tirsas."  She walked ahead, letting her fingers trail the tops of ferns as she passed.  "As much as Feyndir complains about being made First, he really is trying his best at it.  I think he wants to be worthy of his predecessor."

_____ _

_____ _

 There was a strangled sound from behind her, and Ryneth turned to see Atharil looking even paler than usual.  At first, she thought it was her oblique mention of Freylen that had upset him, and she chided herself internally.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Your hair," he whispered.

_____ _

_____ _

 She ran a hand across the back of her head, pulling one plait over her shoulder.  A thin strip of red leather had been threaded into it, a detail she hadn't noticed before.  "Do you like it?  Feyndir braided it for me."

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil leaned one hand against a tree.  "He told me he had something to show me."

_____ _

_____ _

 "What?"  She was completely confused now.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Feyndir told me there was something he wanted me to see tonight.  This is what he meant."

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth frowned.  "He wanted you to...what?  Admire his hairdressing skills?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil laughed, a hollow sound.  He pushed off the tree and walked over to her, taking the plait in one hand. 

_____ _

_____ _

 "Feyndir has given you a gift, dear one."  He stroked the bit of leather gently, reverently.  "As long as this binds your hair, the rest of you is unbound."  He arched an eyebrow meaningfully.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Unbound?"  But some part of her already understood.  "Why?  Why would he do that?"

_____ _

_____ _

 The hunter smiled sympathetically.  "Because he loves you, I imagine.  And because he is not blind."

_____ _

_____ _

 She felt numb.  "Oh, no."

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil lifted her chin with his fingertips.  "Please don't be upset.  If you want me to go, you need only -"

_____ _

_____ _

 She pressed her mouth to his, overcome with desire and guilt in equal parts.  Atharil froze briefly in surprise, but then he was kissing her back, and it was nothing like the brief, sweet exchange they'd shared before.  She could almost taste, as his tongue crossed her lips, the grief that lay beneath his lust, the pain behind his urgency.  His fists knotted in her skirt and he pulled her against him, holding her desperately tight.

_____ _

_____ _

 "We could...."  He traced kisses, hot and light, down her neck and across her collarbone.  "Just for tonight...." 

_____ _

_____ _

 She suddenly felt the unyielding coolness of a tree trunk pressed against her spine, though she didn't recall backing up.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Not here."  The heat was rising in her cheeks, the night air cold against her face.  "Not here, Atharil.  Take me into your tent."

_____ _

_____ _

 The hunter groaned, the sound a vibration against her chest.  "I can't.  I want to - gods, how I want to - but I can't."

_____ _

_____ _

 He pulled away, breathless.

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth blinked, yanking her dress hastily back into place.  Somehow Atharil had maneuvered one of her breasts free without her even realizing it.

_____ _

_____ _

 "I'm sorry."  He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling in a puff.  "I won't risk your safety.  If Andruil ever found out that I'm...that you're _important _to me...."__

_____ _

_____ _

 Her heart sank as she realized he was still thinking such things.  "What happened to Freylen was a terrible accident.  Blood magic is dangerous, and -"

_____ _

_____ _

 "Mythal exists, and that means Andruil does, too.  That's no longer a matter of religion, but a fact."

_____ _

_____ _

 "But Freylen was possessed by a demon, Atharil, not a Creator."  She crossed her arms.

_____ _

_____ _

 He winced.  "That's true.  But I sensed Andruil's influence that night, Ryneth.  I felt her drawing from my will -"

_____ _

_____ _

 "You're not even a mage."  She hated the harshness in her tone, but she couldn't help it.

_____ _

_____ _

 "I'm an elf.  Maybe there isn't that much difference, when it comes to it."  He sighed.  "You think I'm delusional.  That's all right."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Ir abelas."  She unfolded her arms and wrapped them around him, letting her head rest on his shoulder.  "What does this mean, then?  That you're doomed to be alone forever?"

_____ _

_____ _

 He rested a hand on the small of her back.  "I'm not alone:  I have you and Feyndir, and I have Frey.  And I have the People."

_____ _

_____ _

 "But never love.  Never again."

_____ _

_____ _

 He was quiet, stroking her hair.  "Not never.  Always."

_____ _

_____ _

 "I...."  She looked up at him, speechless.

_____ _

_____ _

 The hunter kissed her forehead.  "Ara seranna-ma.  I won't speak of it again."  He busied his hands in her hair, carefully unthreading and removing the leather strand.  When it was free, he placed it in her palm with a wistful smile.  "You should return this to Feyndir, I think.  And I should go to my daughter."

_____ _

_____ _

 

_____ _

_____ _

 Frey was sleeping when he approached.  The white-haired elf who was looking after her smiled at Atharil, her tired eyes crinkling with happiness as he crouched beside the infant in her fur-lined basket.

_____ _

_____ _

 "It is good to see you out amongst the People again, Atharil," the old woman said.

_____ _

_____ _

 He lifted Frey gently to his chest.  "Thank you for watching her, hahren," he murmured, mindful not to wake the child.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Ma nuvenin.  Anything for our hero, hunter."

_____ _

_____ _

 He choked back the objection in his throat.

_____ _

_____ _

  
 Atharil passed near to the central campfire again on the way to his tent.  Ryneth had found Feyndir, and he was trying to teach her the steps to an old Dalish dance, a look of pure relief and adoration on his face.  She stepped on his foot, and they both laughed.  He raised her hand to his lips.

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil smiled.  He looked down at Frey, tiny in his arms, and not bothered in the least by the thrumming of the music.  Her long, pale lashes rested like snowflakes against her pink cheeks, her breath coming in small, even puffs. 

_____ _

_____ _

 "My sweet daughter," he whispered, planting a soft kiss on her cheek.  "Come, da'len.  Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma serannas to everyone who's followed this sometimes meandering story start to finish. You've made the path less lonely. 
> 
> Mythal'enaste.


End file.
